Bloodlines

by Nicole Sinclair

  Just before the resort, Pirate brings the dinghy to shore, jumps out and extends his hand.

  ‘Madam,’ he says, bowing, ‘your first destination.’

  Beth stands, momentarily staggers back with the roll of the waves, straightens and takes his hand, stepping onto the white sand.

  Pirate spreads a faded green towel on the beach. ‘A ... table bilong … white meri,’ he says. ‘My Pidgin’s crap. Here: please sit.’

  He brings out containers: smoked fish, bread, sliced pineapple. There’s a blue flask of milky coffee.

  ‘Wow.’ Beth smiles. ‘Impressive organisation.’

  ‘It’s not much,’ he says. ‘Leftovers from last night.’

  ‘It’s great,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’ She looks out onto the water and turns back to Pirate. ‘I’ve never seen that before,’ she says.

  There are long ribbons of sea grass reaching up towards the surface, as far as the eye can see.

  ‘Well, you probably wouldn’t see it anywhere else,’ says Pirate. He stuffs pieces of smoked fish between two slices of bread. ‘Bet it’s from The Lagoon. All their detergents and fumes and shit stuffing up the water. The algae and the grasses are having a field day.’ He tears at the bread. ‘You see it all over the world, these expats making a deal with the local people, promising to look after the place, the land and sea, but a few years later, when it’s all about chasing the dollar, this crap happens. Environmental agreements out the window, pollution rife, wrecking the place.’

  ‘Or the dream ends and they pack up and head home, buildings half finished,’ she says. ‘There’s resorts further down the highway that have been left to rot.’ Then suddenly she asks: ‘So how do you get by? You know, with all the travelling, what do you do for money?’

  ‘I’m cheap!’ he laughs. ‘Well, I live cheaply anyway. We catch fish and wherever we stop for a bit, Jim usually has work lined up—odd jobs, labouring mainly. In Cairns we built a shed for his mate in two weeks, in Rio we did a paving job for his friend who opened up a restaurant. I wouldn’t survive without Jim’s mates all over the place!’

  ‘But before Jim, what did you do?’

  ‘I lived in London, had a job I hated but paid really well. I saved my arse off.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I worked in finance. Joined a good company at the right time, had the sense to buy some shares. Still do good out of that decision.’

  She looks at his long hair under the blue bandana, shells around his neck, the tanned sinewy arms. ‘Somehow,’ she says, ‘I can’t see you suited up sitting in an office in front of a computer.’

  ‘Hell, I don’t even email home these days!’ He downs the last of his coffee. ‘No, it was good for the money—I’d do overtime and take trips every six months: France, Scandinavia, Poland, North Africa, the Caribbean. And then a few years back I just saved like a madman and went to China in the summer and never went back.’ He wipes his hands down his shorts. ‘You finished your coffee?’ he asks.

  ‘Yep,’ she says, aware she’s picked the bones of her fish clean, and eaten the eyes as well. Lena would be impressed.

  *

  The boat skims across the water until Pirate drops anchor two hundred metres out along the reef. He reaches under the bench seat for snorkel sets.

  ‘Aiglas bilong yu!’ he says, and she smiles. ‘You been snorkelling out here?’

  ‘Nope. Just along the wharf and round that old trawler.’

  ‘This spot’s amazing,’ he says. ‘Jim and I came the first week. He calls it the nightclub—all the fish buzzing and darting like they’re on drugs.’

  Beth scans the water, the coastline. No other boats. She wriggles out of her shorts and takes her T-shirt off, and before she has the chance to feel selfconscious, or realise this is the first man who has seen her near-naked body since Sam, Pirate grabs her hand and they both go crashing down into the sea. Beth follows him to the edge of the reef, a shelf running in front and behind as far as she can see and, although much of the coral is dead, she looks down on so much colour: sunflower yellow butterfish, orange anemone, turquoise parrotfish. She drifts along the reef, loses sight of Pirate, enjoying the solitude of this other world and the tick-ticking-ticking of fish nibbling coral.

  Sometime later, as she’s starting to feel cold, Pirate swims over, motioning her to follow. They swim about twenty metres and then he shepherds her in front, pointing to the right. Just as Beth turns she sees the flash of a black shark turning in on itself. Her squeal is muffled inside the snorkel, she splashes, kicks away, swims swims swims furious hard kicks, eyes closed swims swims to the dinghy. She grabs onto the side, breathless, and treads water. When she rips off her snorkel, gasping for air, Pirate’s head is already above the water, rocking in laughter.

  ‘Beth, Beth, they’re tiny,’ he says. ‘They’re only three foot. This is magnified, remember?’ He taps the glass.

  She flushes. ‘Bastard,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, moving closer. ‘They’re just reef sharks. Harmless. I would’ve warned you if I knew it would freak you out. Sorry.’

  *

  Pirate leaves a scrawled note at the school office for Beth the next day: Meet me at the main wharf at 5. Val smiles at her from the front desk and Beth tries to stymie the red racing up her neck. The sky’s clouding in and as she comes round the front of the church, down the hill to the beach, she sees Pirate’s dinghy tied to a pylon. Her stomach flips. She scans the shore, finds him sitting under a raintree with a group of men, one resting his foot on a huge turtle. As she steps onto the pier, Pirate looks up, waves, runs towards her.

  ‘Hi Beth,’ he says. ‘Those guys just got that turtle out the back of the little island. You tried turtle?’

  ‘Hey there,’ she says. ‘Nope, never tried it.’

  ‘You gotta,’ he says. ‘Delicious.’ He reaches for her hand, steadying the boat as she steps in. ‘Jim’s away tonight and I thought you might like to come for dinner. We’ll have to catch it of course.’

  The motor splutters and they head for the yacht. They sit on deck, hand lines dipping into the sea, mosquito coils burning around them. Every so often Beth feels the line tug between her fingers and she looks up expectantly. Nothing. Just a bigger wave lapping against the yacht. The sky is darkening; she feels the quiet, the calm seeping in. She enjoys this silence with Pirate, doesn’t want to spoil it with words. A few moments later he walks down the deck but she’s happy to stay here, looking at the black oiliness of the water and the small islands further out, coming slowly alive with fires and kerosene lanterns.

  ‘Want one?’ Pirate asks, two beers in his hand.

  Beth usually says no to beer but she feels relaxed tonight, wants that feeling of being pulled along, not having to think too hard.

  ‘Sure.’ She sips, the sour fizz of it tickling her nose.

  They talk about Jim and Rejoice and the kids, Lena and Ruth, her students, about Pirate’s trip through Africa. The night, humid and still, thickens around them. There are no fish.

  ‘Maybe it’s chicken after all,’ Pirate says finally. ‘Just as well we have some.’

  ‘Kakaruk,’ Beth says.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Kakaruk is chicken. For a hen—kakaruk meri; rooster is kakaruk man.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ Pirate shakes his head. ‘You stay here. I’ll cook kakaruk meri.’

  What’s your favourite meat, Beth?

  I was practically vego, remember Sam, before I met you.

  Yeah, okay, but if you had to choose, what would it be?

  Fish.

  It’s not really meat though, you know steak or bacon or sausages: what would it be?

  Fish steaks.

  He’d hit her with a cushion. Mine’s chicken, every time. Versatile as hell.

  She feels the dull ache still there, lingers a moment longer in their tiny Fremantle kitchen. She stands, steadies herself, heads down the boat to find Pirate. He’s stooped over a gas hob, poking
at chicken wings with a fork.

  ‘We’ve got—surprise, surprise—rice.’ He points to the silver pot alongside. ‘And greens.’ Sliced snake beans, choko and aibika are piled on a plate.

  ‘Great,’ Beth says, smiling. ‘Exactly what I feel like.’ He looks at her. ‘Seriously,’ she says. ‘Haven’t had it for at least two nights now.’ He laughs. ‘What can I do?’ she asks.

  ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Well, you can sing or tap dance if you want—hell, the fish are already scared—but I’m cool with just talking. Tell me more about you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, for one thing, why you’re here. Not this boat—I know my charm and culinary skills are obvious reasons, I mean ... here. Why this place?’

  She stiffens. ‘You already know that. I’m helping at the school.’

  ‘Yeah, I get it. But there’s loads of schools in loads of places. Why here?’

  ‘Val’s Dad’s cousin. She needed help.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s not much else to tell, really.’ Her voice is small.

  ‘Well,’ Pirate says, stabbing a wing and turning it over. ‘There’s got to be a story in there somewhere. You’ve got story written all over you.’

  ‘There’s really not much to say,’ Beth says again.

  ‘Got a boyfriend?’

  ‘If I did, I don’t think I’d be here. With you, or in PNG.’

  ‘Right, that’s a start then. She’s single. How long?’

  Beth looks out to the islands. Seven months. Three weeks. One day. ‘A while,’ she says.

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Seven months.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘You or him?’

  She pauses, then: ‘Me, I guess.’

  ‘Tough one, huh? The break up?’

  ‘Yeah, you could say that all right.’ Then, because she’s out here and not there, because the chicken smells salty and delicious, because she just wants to move beyond it all, she says, ‘Feel like another beer?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, and walks to the icebox.

  ‘How about you?’ she asks. ‘When was your last girlfriend?’

  ‘Oh years ago, the serious one, anyway. Too serious it was. Finishing each other’s sentences and shit. I’m just not a long termer. Like I said, I move too much. It’s not fair on anyone. I like knowing I can go in the morning or the night, never feel bad about that, never owe more than I can give, you know ... I’m just being honest.’

  ‘No problem,’ Beth says. ‘I just don’t want to talk about Sam, okay? That’s all.’

  He tips the chicken wings onto a plate and puts the greens in the pan to fry.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ he says.

  *

  Pirate lights candles propped in jars and they sip beer and tear chicken wings, grease dribbling down their chins. Beth describes life with Clem, and when she tells him about Rose, he moves closer and puts a hand on her knee. They talk about the island, Roo, the storm a few weeks back. Pirate describes university in Bristol, the pubs on Whiteladies Road. Beth knows Bristol—loved the gristle of it, its gritty streets, the sense of black community. They swap lines from Massive Attack and Portishead and somehow end up reciting Shakespeare and Wordsworth until all the food is eaten and Pirate looks up at the sky, the clouds so low there are no stars, and says, ‘You need to head home soon?’

  She should say yes.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘It’s a school night.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So.’

  ‘Well then,’ he says, moving closer, his leg touching hers. ‘Would you like to stay?’

  She feels the what ifs and why nots all tangled up, feels the closeness of his body. ‘I think I would,’ she says slowly. ‘Yes. I would ... but nothing’s going to happen all right? Okay?’

  He looks at her for a long moment. ‘No problem,’ he says, and smiles. ‘The first date and all that.’ He smiles. ‘Though we could count the snorkelling trip, so this technically is the second.’

  ‘I mean it.’ Beth punches him gently on the arm. ‘But I’m happy to kiss on the second date.’

  And so, carrying a candle, Pirate leads Beth past dirty plates, fishing lines, ropes and diving gear, below deck. His single bed is strewn with clothes. He places the candle on a shelf, quickly gathers the clothes and tosses them on the floor.

  ‘Cleaner’s day off,’ he murmurs, as he reaches for her.

  Their foreheads touch, and then he gently circles her nose with his, slowly one way, then the other. And then they are gone. A soft, long kiss and he’s pulling her on top of him as he lies back on the bed, their mouths hot and chicken-greasy. And Beth knows how far this could go, how easy it would be to unravel. But she won’t let it. They’ll kiss some more and she’ll lie fully clothed in the crook of his arm, listening to his quiet breathing and the waves lapping the yacht, and the whole time the moon will be trying to break through those dark clouds above.

  ‘And how do you know she isn’t with a black man up there?’

  Harry Smithson asks this one afternoon as Clem drives them home from a sheep sale in Guildford.

  Clem presses the accelerator a little harder. ‘Dunno,’ he says finally. ‘She might be.’

  ‘A black man, Clem. Doesn’t it bother you but?’ Harry looks at him.

  Clem can see a line of sheep under gum trees near a dam off to his left.

  ‘I just can’t imagine it,’ Harry’s voice is getting louder. ‘Your daughter with some black bloke’s hands on her. God—’

  ‘Leave it, Harry.’ Clem’s voice is sharp. He isn’t in the mood for this today. He doesn’t need this kind of talk. He just wants to get home, eat his leftover pork chops and vegies, some of Eva’s bread and butter pudding, and go to bed. He’d spent half of last night awake, wondering what Beth was up to on that island. She hasn’t called or written for weeks. And he won’t call because he doesn’t want her thinking he’s checking up on her. But the silence is killing him. Why the hell doesn’t she phone?

  It feels like Beth’s swimming through the day, pulling and pushing at time as it drags, then rushing forward to lunch. Somehow she gets through Goodnight Mister Tom with the Year Sevens and Peter Pan with the Years Eights.

  ‘She is a nasty girl that Tinker Bell, Misis Beth,’ says Abraham, shaking his head.

  In Art, Beth threads seeds and nuts onto lengths of leather. She shows the students how to make beads by winding strips of different colours around a pencil, pressing hard, and applying lacquer. Nin and Hosannah are swift, and by the end of the class they have over thirty beads lined up on the window ledge, drying in the sun.

  ‘Bravo,’ Beth says, and they look at her, perplexed. ‘It means very well done. You know, gutpela.’

  The girls look at her, nudging each other.

  ‘Misis,’ whispers Hosannah, ‘you speak Pidgin. No Pidgin at school, remember?’

  Beth winks at her. ‘Mi sori tru,’ she says.

  She walks away, hearing the girls giggle. It’s the sort of thing she’d do with her favourite students at home—this pushing of boundaries—because she could relax a little and have fun, even be a little subversive, knowing they could handle it.

  All morning Beth can feel herself swaying with the yacht, and she steadies herself at the blackboard, then keeps moving from desk to desk, offering help, swallowing back yawns. She avoids Val and Lena and Ruth: it’s obvious she didn’t come home last night. Although she’d tried to be quiet, the padlock on the front gate jangled when she got home and as she hurried across the lawn, head down, she caught the swish of curtain at Ruth’s house, and knew that Delilah was watching.

  At lunch Beth stays in the sewing room, reading through student workbooks, but she sees Pirate: the brown eyes, the tanned arm that cocooned her all night. She rests her head on the desk. She smells the salt of his chest; feels the heat o
f him.

  When the final bell rings, she heads straight for the beach. She needs the water. The day’s been humid and she feels parched. She kicks off her sandals and dives in, her skirt and T-shirt sticking to her. She surfaces and inhales, dives again, the clothes weighing her down, and she forces through the water, four-five-six breaststrokes before she emerges again, puffing. She looks out at the yacht. No movement. What had she thought? That he’d be sitting on deck, waving her over? Beth turns and freestyles west, then she floats on her back, raking her hands through her hair.

  It’s like swimming with a hairy octopus, Sam’s voice is in her ear. It’s after midnight and, giddy from retsina, they’re swimming naked in the sea off the north coast of Crete. Sam grabs her, spins her slowly onto her back; she’s floating under moonlight amidst a sea of curls. He slowly bends over her, gently kisses one nipple, then the other.

  Beth shuts her eyes, dives deeply, pulling herself through the water, surfaces and freestyles as fast as she can and then, mean with memory, she heads for the pier. When she finally looks up, there’s Pirate sitting on the rotting pylon. She treads water for a few moments, then makes long, measured strokes to reach him, trying to slow her heart. And as he gives her his hand and pulls her from the water, she’s tugging at her T-shirt, feels it suck back to her skin, and she’s fourteen again, embarrassed.

  ‘I’ve missed you today, Beth,’ he says.

  ‘Well, you’re seeing quite a bit of me now.’

  He laughs. ‘You probably want to head home,’ he says. ‘But I was just thinking this weekend, how about we go someplace else? Been to Little Island? I hear it’s incredible.’

  ‘Liklik ailan?’

  ‘Yeah. Jim knows a woman there, Jemimah, who runs a guesthouse. I thought we could leave Friday after school, come back Sunday.’