by Jenni Ogden
The Pisonia trees with their sticky buds were loaded with twiggy nests full of seriously cute baby noddy terns, all squawking endlessly for more food. The trees could be deadly if the adult bird misjudged its landing spot and became ensnared by the sticky buds. One day I rescued a stuck-up bird flailing about on the ground, and it was a slow and painstaking process pulling the jellybean-sized seeds off its feathers, one by one. But I was rewarded when the bird, finally seed-free, balanced on its webbed feet, shook out its ruffled feathers, and flew unsteadily up into a tree. When a baby fell out of its crowded nest there was nothing to be done; as far as I could see, the parents never came for it.
Underfoot the shearwaters waddled about, not so many during the day, but thousands returning from sea each evening. I’d sit on the beach with my glass of wine, sometimes alone, sometimes with Tom or Pat, and great flocks of birds would darken the pink evening sky as they silently soared and wheeled in ever lower circles, the kings of the air. Then they would plummet clumsily to the ground, running along the sand for a meter or two before skidding to a stop near their burrow. After greeting their mates, stuck there on incubation duty, they would hang around in groups discussing their day, ignoring the people walking past.
On the reef flats there were many waders, including the lanky and elegant herons, some white and others blue-gray. Once, when we were sitting quietly on the beach, Tom pointed to a dot far out over the reef, and as it came closer I could see it was a large bird of prey. It landed high in the feathery branches of a Casuarina tree, no more than ten meters from us—a white-breasted sea eagle, with a five-foot wingspan and deeply hooked bill.
Violet and Bill had one of their barbecues on Christmas Eve, and this time I had no second thoughts about joining the party. Everyone brought some food as well as alcohol, and by midnight we were all fairly happy. High tide was at one in the morning, and Tom, Ben, and I staggered off to do the turtle count. It was five before my last turtle returned to the sea, just making it before the coral was too exposed for her to swim safely back to the deep. I counted twenty-eight laying turtles on my patch during that watch, and eighteen of them had to be tagged. It was a struggle in my slightly woozy state, but as the dawn broke, I collapsed on the sand, fizzing with the pure joy of it. I raised an imaginary glass to my long-gone research assistants, hopefully now happily working for a better boss than I. “Here’s to you,” I sang into the cooling salt breeze. “I finally understand what it’s all about.”
SEVEN
“Are you going to take something American on New Year’s?” Pat asked.
“Pardon?”
“For the party. I thought you might bring an American specialty.”
“What party?
“On New Year’s Eve.”
“I haven’t been invited. Is it at Bill and Violet’s?” I didn’t know if I felt embarrassed or pissed off. I was sitting at Pat’s table scoffing her wonderful pikelets, still warm from the pan and slathered in butter and raspberry jam. I’d been telling her they were called flapjacks in America, although no flapjack I’d ever eaten could hold a candle to these.
“It’s at Tom’s place. Everyone goes. You don’t need an invitation.”
“He never mentioned it. I didn’t think parties were his sort of thing.”
“Ha. That’s what he wants us to believe.” Pat’s chuckle was almost wicked. “The first year he came here we had a party on the beach, and it started to rain. So we fled to Tom’s place—we were around that side of the island and it was nearest. He was there all on his lonesome, so we took over. It was the best party we’d ever had, and lasted until dawn. After that it became a tradition. Tom always protests but we always ignore him.”
“That’s terrible. Poor Tom. I’d hate it too, having it forced on me like that.”
“Watch it, my girl, or we’ll swap to your place.”
“Don’t you dare. We’d have all the campers gate-crashing as well.”
“So? They usually end up at Tom’s as well. It’s a free-for-all. But we do take pity on the poor guy and everyone brings a plate.”
“‘Ladies a plate please.’ I haven’t heard that expression since I was a kid.”
“I thought it was an Aussie expression. I guess it originated in England. Anyway, that’s what I meant. You could wow everyone with something quintessentially American.”
“My cooking would do nothing for America’s reputation. Anyway, pumpkins aren’t too common around here.”
“Surely pumpkin pie isn’t the only American dish you can make?”
“You’re right. I can’t even make that. Anyway, I’m British.”
“Hmmm. Well, you’d better come up with something.”
“I think I’ll give it a miss. I’m not much good at that sort of party, and Tom never even mentioned it.”
“He would assume you knew about it, that’s all. It’s not an option. Everyone goes. And for heaven’s sake, you’re one of the turtle research team now. What’s more, it’s the only night of the turtle tagging season when Tom gives his taggers a night off.”
PAT PICKED ME UP AT SEVEN ON NEW YEAR’S EVE, SHE with her carrot cake and me with my Thai green chicken curry. A quintessential American dish. Tom’s place was already overflowing when we got there; I didn’t think there were that many people on the island. How the campers knew about the party was a mystery, given I nearly missed it altogether. But they were there en masse.
We deposited our food in the kitchen, where Violet and Diane were bustling about heating stuff up. We eagerly offered to help but they shooed us away and we went outside, where a long trestle table was set up, already laden with food and booze. Basil was wielding a large ladle in a large punch bowl, and filled us a glass each of something that tasted deliciously fruity and tropical but was certainly mostly alcohol given the rapid onset of lightheadedness after a swig or two. Loud modern music was blaring from speakers set up on the deck, and I recognized some of my campers dancing in the way youth dance these days. Most of the partygoers were standing or sitting in groups on the deck and grassy sand that surrounded Tom’s house. I looked around for Tom, and spotted him talking to some people I didn’t know.
“Come on. Let’s say hi to our host,” Pat said, pushing me in front of her.
I felt stupidly shy and out of place. Tom grinned at us, and introduced me to the couple with him. I forgot their names instantly, but managed to retain the information that they had arrived that day to stay in their holiday house for three weeks.
The night wore on and I followed Pat around, talked to Basil, and continued to feel like the proverbial fish out of water. By ten o’clock the food had mostly disappeared and everyone was dancing. The moon hadn’t risen yet and the stars were, as one of the campers said to me, awesome. I managed to avoid dancing by sitting in the corner of the deck until Bill came over, hauled me to my feet, and dragged me out onto the grass. I jiggled around to the music but it was almost impossible to keep in time to. Everyone else seemed to know the words to every song and I felt as old as Methuselah. It was more of a group dance than a couple thing, and once Bill had done his duty and gotten me in there, he melted into the crowd and I was left jiggling about randomly. I caught glimpses of Tom, who, rather to my surprise, was acting as crazily as the rest of them. Here was me thinking he was a quiet, solitary type. Then he was in front of me, grinning and yelling something over the din.
“Enjoying yourself?” I think he said.
“Yes, great,” I shouted back, waving my hands in the air and jiggling up and down.
He bent over and shouted in my ear, “Do you like this group?”
“What group? Do you mean the music?”
He nodded, still grinning.
“A bit too modern for me.”
“Shall I put on some decent music?” he yelled.
“Yes, please. What’s decent?”
“Wait and see.” He shimmied away and disappeared inside the house. The song came to a loud end and the dancers stopped, some drif
ting off to get another drink. Abandoned, I saw Pat in a knot of people and started towards her.
The Rolling Stones cut through the night, and the dancers still hanging around became instantly innervated again.
“More like it?” Tom was beside me, already movin’ and groovin’.
“A bit before my time, but it will do,” I mouthed back. After that I concentrated on matching his moves and looking like I was as overtaken by the music as everyone else. Soon not even Basil was left on the sidelines.
“GET THE MUSIC OFF AND TURN ON THE RADIO,” someone called out. “It’s almost midnight.” The hyped-up voice of the talkback radio host from Brisbane took over, counting down the seconds to the end of 2008 and the beginning of a new year.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one,” we all chanted. “Happy New Year.”
All around me people were kissing and hugging. I looked desperately for Pat amongst the dark shapes, and then I felt Tom’s hands turning me towards him and he bent and kissed me. I had a fleeting sense of his lips, soft on mine, and then I was almost bowled over as a woman threw herself at him. Recovering my balance, I backed off, and to my relief immediately came upon Pat. I hugged her tightly and we were swirled into the circle of hand-holding merrymakers singing “Auld Lang Syne.” Across the circle I could see Tom clutching the hand of the female who’d so effectively halted any chance I’d had of kissing him back. She appeared to be dressed in her underwear—tight, tiny white shorts that cut her vertically in two, and a brief top that exposed most of her perky boobs and flat brown stomach. Her legs, of course, were gorgeous. She was laughing up at Tom, all eyes and a boy’s haircut that only models can get away with. Where the hell has she sprung from? I’d never set eyes on her before.
We’d got to the second verse of “Auld Lang Syne,” where everyone crosses their arms and plods into the middle of the circle. This brought Tom and me together briefly, and he gave me an exaggerated wink. Model girl looked through me. I was horribly aware of my khaki safari pants and classic white shirt—the perfect party attire for a forty-nine-year-old neuroscientist.
“Who is that?” I asked Pat when we were safely ensconced with Basil, drinking a quiet toast to 2009.
“She’s the daughter of Sadie and Frank—over there.” She pointed to the couple Tom had introduced me to when I first arrived. “They have a holiday house here. Polly has been coming to the island since before she was born. She’s grown up a bit.”
“She seems to have a thing for Tom. Isn’t she a bit young?”
“Probably. But she isn’t as young as you think. She must be close to thirty. In normal life she is a staid lawyer.”
“I don’t believe it. Lawyer, perhaps. Staid, never.”
“She’s actually very nice. Tom’s more like a brother than a boyfriend I think.”
“Whatever. Where’s Violet, and Diane? I must wish them a happy New Year. I bet they’re in the kitchen.”
I THOUGHT ABOUT MAKING TRACKS FOR HOME FROM time to time after that, but no one else was leaving. Violet had somehow managed to get her children to sleep on Tom’s bed, and other older kids were running in and out of the dancers and back and forth from the beach. Goodness knows what the nesting turtles thought. Would they be able to hear all this racket? Perhaps their hearing wasn’t too sharp.
I was feeling pretty relaxed, having had more than my share of Basil’s fruit punch and a glass or two of wine. I danced some more, this time with Diane and Ben, and caught occasional glimpses of Tom, sometimes dancing, and sometimes in one of the huddles of people drinking and smoking on the grass. Grass on the grass. I noticed the staid Polly was usually close by his side. The sweet smell took me back to my student days; I’d never used it then either. Control was my middle name.
It was two o’clock when Violet and Bill picked up their sleepy children and wove their way over to us. Pat decided to go home as well, and I started off with them, but decided to sit a while on the moonlit beach. I walked along the sand until I could barely hear the music. I was full of feelings. Homesickness for snowy Boston. Missing my lunches with Fran. Missing Dad—how he would love it here. Awe at the beauty of this island. Joy for the undersea bounty I could now float above. Worry about what I’d do when all this was at an end. Happiness that I’d become friends with Pat, and Violet and Diane.
A turtle emerged from the sea and began her timeless journey up the sand.
Love for these beautiful animals. Feelings for Tom. Feelings I failed to—dared not—put a name to, even in my private thoughts. I wiped a ridiculous tear from my cheek. Relief that I could cry, perhaps? No doubt made easier by alcohol.
“I wondered where you’d got to. Thought you’d crept away without saying goo’ night.” Tom’s familiar voice seemed a part of the dream. He lowered himself down and stretched out on the sand. The mother turtle was on her way back to the sea, her eggs safely laid and her nest camouflaged.
“I didn’t think you’d notice my absence. You seemed to be well occupied.”
He chuckled. “Polly, you mean. She’s okay. Just missing her boyfriend.”
“She’s very sexy.”
“Good golly, Miss Molly. I do believe you’re jealous.” He sounded bloody gleeful.
“Don’t be daft. I was simply concerned that you might be had up for cradle snatching and the turtle program would go down the gurgler.”
He sat up and pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. I watched him as he rolled a joint. He and I were poles apart. Good to be reminded. He flicked a lighter and sucked in a deep breath. Then he handed it to me.
“Have a puff. Think of it as medicinal.”
“I don’t thanks. I like to be in control.”
“That I know. But guess what, a few puffs won’t take that away from you, and I won’t tell a soul if it does.”
I looked at him, expecting to see amusement in his eyes. But what I saw there was softness. My hand went out and I took the joint and put it between my lips. I coughed a little; it had been more than twenty-five years since I had given up smoking—tobacco that is, never marijuana.
After a few puffs I handed it back. I lay down and looked at the stars. The joint floated back to me. I was eager for it now. I turned on my side and smiled at Tom lying there looking at me.
“That’s a pretty pendant.” He moved my hand from it and tugged it gently and our lips met. I pulled away, a small frisson of shock at my behavior shivering through me. He kissed me again and I tasted the smoke in his warm breath. I rolled its sweetness around and then felt his tongue in my mouth. It was what I wanted. Where I wanted to be.
EIGHT
On New Year’s Day I woke groggy and headachy and generally a mess. How on earth would I face Tom? I needed new data sheets before my turtle watch, so I forced myself along the track to his place, rehearsing what I would say to defuse the situation. He was leaving on his own patrol when I reached his house, and before I had a chance to speak he grinned at me, gave me a chaste peck on my cheek, and carried on as usual. I suppose last night was just jolly New Year japes to him. For me, not quite so simple.
By nightfall the turtles were everywhere. So many were laying that I couldn’t keep up, and saw, too late, at least two returning to the sea before I’d had a chance to see if they were already tagged or to measure them. By now there were so many buried nests that quite often a turtle would dig up eggs from some poor mother’s earlier efforts.
About an hour into my patrol Polly appeared, all rigged out in her own tagging belt and headlamp. She had shorts on but they were not as skin-tight as her party outfit.
“Tom asked me to come and help you out,” she said as I struggled to tag a turtle already on her way back to the sea.
“Thanks, but I can manage.” I could hear how unwelcoming I sounded.
“It doesn’t look like it. I’ve been doing a tagging stint for five years now, so I know the drill. It’s like this all around the island tonight; our turtle mums have decided to come up in the
ir droves.”
She sounded friendly. Perhaps I’d misjudged her—and it was hardly my call to make if Tom had told her to help.
“Sorry. You’re right. Why don’t you start where the beach rock begins and work back towards me; so far I have only got from the wharf to here.”
“Will do,” she said, and off she went.
Hours later, when the last turtle had cleared the beach, we met up and counted data sheets. She had tagged and measured eighteen turtles, and I’d managed twenty with my hour’s start. She took my data forms to deliver to Tom’s house before going back to her own place. I felt usurped, but at the same time relieved. After that, each evening she collected replacement forms and tags for both of us, so I had no reason to see Tom. For the next three weeks we did my patch together, and I came to like her quite a lot. She loved it as much as me—in fact, one night she told me I was doing what she wished she had the guts to do: chuck in her lawyer job and live here. I missed her when she left for her other life in Sydney. But I felt positively gleeful that I got to stay. My past life in Boston seemed almost a dream, and a bad one at that.
I never did discover whether there was anything going on between Polly and Tom. I didn’t think so, but what would I know?
BABY TURTLES WERE ERUPTING EVERYWHERE. THE FIRST time I saw it, I was sitting quietly by myself on the beach near my cabin, having a pre-dinner gin and tonic. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a movement in the unblemished, innocent sand. First a little head, then two small flippers, and then the whole body popped out. It reminded me of a baby being born. Which is what it was, of course. Another emerged and then another and all at once the sand had turned into a miniature volcano spewing out baby turtles, all perfectly formed and exact copies of their parents. They scuttled down the gentle slope towards the lightness of the sea, tumbling over each other and sometimes turning head over tail and landing with all flippers flailing in the air in their hurry to get away. They were like little clockwork toys. Each one about five centimeters long from head to tail.
