Magnolias don't Die

by AJ Collins

  It’s freezing, but it seems every passenger has turned up, hopeful in summer clothing, to watch the ship sail out of the harbour. The buzz of anticipation is amazing. It’s like a scene from a movie – the vastness of the ship towering over the pier, the deck chairs surrounding the pool, the throbbing of the vessel as it eases out of the port, and of course the promise of sunshine, beaches and happiness. How lucky am I?

  As the ship approaches the Sydney Harbour Bridge, the crowd goes eerily quiet. There’s an intensity of concentration. Will we fit underneath? It doesn’t look like it. We’re all holding our breath. And then a humungous cheer erupts as the ship’s funnel clears the underside of the structure. Ridiculous, but I’m grinning with the joy of it.

  We pass the Sydney Opera House – we’re sailing! – and people lined up all around the iconic building’s rails wave at us. We wave back madly, cheering. The ship’s horn blares, and everyone jumps with fright, then laughter ripples through the crowd. Harry and I start up Dobie Gray’s ‘Drift Away’. It seems the perfect song for this moment. I’m trying to absorb the scene as I sing, to store it in my memory as something amazingly special. Something not everybody gets to do. In this moment, I can forget about everything. About Snap. About home. All the things that have been bringing me down.

  Music is literally taking me places.

  20. Vexation

  Later that night as we’re getting ready for our evening gig, the gloss suddenly wears off. Although the cabin’s stench has been replaced by sweet-smelling carpet deodoriser, when I step out of the shower, I discover a bigger problem. I search the tiny bathroom with its shallow-mirrored cabinets and non-existent drawers, telling myself I must be going blind. Eventually, I have to accept what I’m looking for is just not here. Wrapped head to toe in towels, I stick my face through the bathroom doorway.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’

  Harry looks up from his laptop, mouth open in surprise. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s no hair dryer!’ I spot the drawers in the desk that runs along the cabin wall and step out to check them. No luck.

  ‘Really?’ asks Harry.

  ‘Really, truly, freakin’ dead set. What sort of cruise ship is this? The website said every room has a hairdryer.’

  ‘Uh ... I don’t use one. I didn’t notice. Maybe that’s just the passenger rooms?’

  ‘Well, can we get one? Can we ask Thomas?’

  He grimaces. ‘I don’t actually know how to contact him. He just turns up to clean the room every morning. I can ring the service desk.’

  He reaches for the phone, and I wait behind him while he talks. I’m suddenly conscious of my nakedness beneath the towels. Harry doesn’t seem to notice. He hangs up and pulls a sad face.

  ‘Sorry. Hairdryers are all pre-installed.’

  ‘Argh. Not in here they’re not. What is this? Peasant division? What about the gift shop?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘For fuck sake. What—’

  ‘Fruit sake.’ He flinches at my I’m-going-to-kill-you expression.

  I drag the towel off my head and point to my wet tangle. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ I no longer care if he sees me in a mess. He should have told me.

  He sighs. ‘Ponytail? Gel?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I stomp back to the bathroom, stubbing my toe on the bottom rim of the doorway. It’s a few centimetres high, designed to stop water spillage. It’s also perfectly designed for busting toes. I curse again and slam the door behind me. Okay, I should have brought my own dryer. I had thought about it, but when Harry said I needed to avoid excess luggage fees, I left it out to make room for the other stuff in my solitary suitcase. Crap. I’m being a princess, I know, but my nerves are getting the better of me.

  A ponytail, he says. I don’t have enough length to catch it all up, and if I let it dry naturally it’ll be Frizz City. I have to try something. Maybe a wet gel look isn’t such a bad idea. I set to work rubbing my hair as dry as I can with the towel, then try slicking it back with product. Not too shabby.

  ‘Sleek,’ Harry says, when I emerge. ‘Sexy.’

  His arse is saved.

  ~

  We have our dinner at what the crew call ‘The Trough’. It’s the ship’s buffet but not as bad as it sounds. The food is hot and tasty, even if mass-produced.

  ‘We’re on in about twenty,’ Harry says.

  I nod, scraping the last bit of chocolate mousse from my little metal cup. ‘Uh huh. Do you think I could have a shot of brandy?’

  He looks surprised. ‘When did you start drinking that?’

  ‘Paul bought me one at the casino, with honey. Took the edge off.’

  Harry doesn’t look happy. What’s it to him? ‘It’s for my throat.’ Why am I justifying myself? He’s not the boss of me.

  ‘Okay. Just one. We’re not supposed to drink while we’re working. After is fine. Just go easy ‘cos everything we buy is tracked on our purchase cards.’

  The lounge is buzzing with conversation when we arrive. I’m buzzing too: I sculled my brandy — not an easy task in the big balloon glass they served it in. Now I’m tipsy, rather than nervy. We work through our first set, and it’s obvious no-one’s in a dancing mood; it’s been a long day and people want to chill and chat. Fine with me. We stick to laid back material for the next two sets. There’ll be plenty of time for partying in the days to come.

  Close to 1 am, done and dusted, we carry our equipment back to the room. My throat is burning, my shoulders are aching, and I’m bumping into walls with the swaying of the ship. There’s a dull ache in my stomach too. I hope I’m not getting seasick. I should probably dose up again with Travacalm.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’ asks Harry. ‘You look a bit pale.’

  I go to speak, and my voice sticks. He looks at my pained expression and returns it with a sympathetic one.

  ‘Throat?’

  I nod, pouting.

  ‘You did really well to get through two gigs in one day with a cold. I can imagine how wrecked you’re feeling.’

  His sympathy helps.

  ‘Shipwrecked,’ I croak, managing a smile. ‘Bed.’

  I hope he doesn’t think that’s an invitation. Don’t be stupid. If I look anything like I feel, he wouldn’t touch me with a double pair of roadie gloves. Harry dumps his chart folder on the floor and digs in his pocket for the keys.

  ‘A cup of lemon tea, two Panadol, then straight to sleep for you,’ he says.

  ‘You’ve got lemon tea?’

  ‘Yep. Swiped it from The Trough at breakfast this morning. Pinched some honey pots too. Thought you might need them.’

  I nearly swoon. What an angel. We enter the room and dump our gear in a corner. I collapse onto my bed, fake a snore into my pillow, then sit up coughing. Bad idea, it killed my throat.

  Harry laughs. ‘Wait until you’ve had a week of late nights and early mornings.’

  I groan. ‘We don’t have to get up early do we?’

  ‘Not tomorrow. But the day after we’ll reach one of the islands, and not even a paralytic drunk can sleep through the anchor dropping.’

  I push myself upright. ‘Think I’ll have a shower.’

  Harry nods. ‘Good idea. I’ll make your tea.’

  The solid water pressure massages my aches. I turn the heat up until my skin tingles. So relieving, except the plastic curtain keeps sticking to my wet butt. A few minutes of bliss, then ... holy shit. My period has come early. Have I upset the gods of the sea or something? That explains why I’m feeling so crap on top of my cold. Definitely not going to be any action the next few days, sick or not.

  I hop out of the shower, reach for my tampons in the shallow cabinet. The toilet has a warning sign not to flush disposables. Geez, am I going to have to leave obvious little packets in the bin for Harry to see? This is feeling like a date from hell.

  The ship’s swaying is getting worse. I hold one hand against the wall to balance myself as I brush my teeth, then si
t on the loo while I rub at my mascara. It’s a chore, but I don’t want Harry to see me panda-eyed in the morning. I change my clothes, whacking my elbow on a ledge. I imagine Harry outside, chuckling at my muffled swearing. I’m going to be covered in bruises before the trip is over. It’s a good thing we don’t have a swear jar. I’d go broke.

  I open the door a fraction to see Harry with his face buried in his laptop. Wishing I’d had time to invest in something classier than a white t-shirt and undies, I quickly pass behind him, clamber into my bed and pull the covers up around my neck.

  ‘Comfy?’ he asks.

  I nod, then sit up as he points to the tea and Panadol on my bedside table.

  ‘Don’t worry about the thin blanket,’ he says. ‘The temperature hardly varies down here in the dungeon.’

  He watches me sip my tea for moment, then stretches and goes to the bathroom. He comes out still fully dressed and sits on the edge of my bed. ‘I’m just going down to the staff office to check my emails. Connection’s usually slow so I might be a little while.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  He strokes my hair. ‘Feeling a little better?’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  He takes my empty teacup and places it on the dresser. I yawn. He waits for me to settle, then leans in and kisses my forehead. ‘I’ll turn the overhead light off,’ he says pressing the nightlight on the wall next to his own pillow. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll try not to wake you when I come back.’

  I push in my earplugs, my eyelids already drooping as he pulls the privacy curtain around my bunk. I snuggle down like a pampered but sick child.

  ~

  Darkness. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. A sudden thump and lurch nearly throws me out of bed. ‘What the hell?’ I reach around and flick the nightlight switch. The curtain is still around my bed. I shove it aside and check the time on my phone. It’s just after 4 am. Another thump jolts me. I take my earplugs out.

  ‘Harry?’

  He stirs above me, his voice thick with sleep. ‘Must have hit a squall. You okay?’

  ‘No, I’m scared. What’s that thumping?’

  ‘It’s just waves.’

  ‘Seriously? It feels like we’re hitting semi-trailers.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  Harry laughs and sticks his head over the edge of his bunk. ‘Do you want me to come down and hold you?’

  I look up into his face, considering it. ‘No, it’s okay. I don’t want you to catch my cold.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure with me being around you all day, that boat’s already sailed. Excuse the pun.’

  I groan. He rolls back on his mattress. The ship continues to sway heavily. I’m waiting for the next thump. When it comes, I have to hold onto the built-in drawers next to my bed to stop being thrown off the mattress. ‘Far out!’

  ‘Hang on, I’m coming down.’

  His bunk creaks, and I consider objecting, but I’m really scared. He climbs down and stands next to my bed. ‘Shove over,’ he says.

  ‘Um, do you mind climbing in behind?’ I ask. ‘I might ... need the loo.’

  ‘You feeling sick?’

  ‘Um ... no. I might just need it.’

  It’s a good thing there’s only the dim glow of the nightlight: my face must be red as hell. I should just tell him. Periods are perfectly natural. Nothing to be ashamed of. But still. What if I have an accident? Would he be grossed-out? Bad luck, he’s here now. I hop out so he can get in first, then sidle back in. He pulls the covers over us and wraps an arm around me. The warmth of his body feels good against my back, comforting, until he nuzzles my neck.

  ‘You smell good,’ he says.

  I grimace, trying to fight the quickening of my pulse, the queasiness in my stomach. He kisses my ear.

  ‘Look,’ I say, flipping the covers back and jumping out again. I stand, arms crossed, but lose my balance and dignity when the ship sways again. ‘Nothing’s happening tonight.’

  He looks shocked. ‘I didn’t mean ...’

  ‘I’m sick.’

  ‘I know. It’s okay.’

  ‘It’s not okay.’

  He stares, puzzled. I owe him an explanation, but it’s too embarrassing. I’ve never talked to a boy about my period. But I don’t want him to think I’m rejecting him for no reason. I want to see if this thing can work between us, and I know sex has to be part of it – that’s normal, even if I don’t know if I’ll ever enjoy it or be able to even go through with it – but not now.

  ‘It’s not the right time,’ I mumble.

  ‘It’s okay. We don’t have to.’ He pats the bed. ‘Come back. I won’t do anything. I’m sorry if I upset you.’

  ‘It’s not you. It’s ...’ Oh, stuff it. ‘I’ve got my period.’

  ‘Ohhh.’ He points to his bunk. ‘Do you want me to go back?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s up to you.’

  He shrugs back. ‘I’m okay, if you are.’

  Is he just being nice? He’s not grossed-out?

  ‘Come back, you goose. You’re shivering.’

  I climb back in, and he covers me up, wrapping his arm around me again but not pressing up so tight. ‘Sleep,’ he says. Now I’m so conscious of his closeness, it takes me ages to relax, even though it feels nice to be held. Real nice.

  Thump.

  I close my eyes and try some deep breathing exercises. I conjure a clear blue sky without a wisp of a cloud. Clarity. Harmony. Tranquillity. It’s no use, my mind meanders. I wonder how Snap is doing and how his grandmother is treating him. I hope they’ve found some peace with each other. I think of Mum. There’s no reason I can’t visit her now. And I want to. I just don’t know if going back to Wineera is a good idea, or how I’ll react when I get there. It’d be nice to see Mary though. I owe her a visit. Actually, I owe her a lot more than that; she’s had my back all this time. How I can repay her?

  Thump.

  Stop thinking. I try to imagine warm water lapping at white sand, the distant sound of gulls calling, palm trees. I think through every sailing, water, beach or holiday-themed song I’ve ever heard: ‘We Are Sailing’, ‘The Love Boat’, ‘My Heart Will Go On’, ‘Six Months in a Leaky Boat’, ‘Down Among the Dead Men’. This is not going well.

  Eventually, my mind floats, coursing through the happenings of the past couple of days. The flight from Melbourne, boarding the ship, the crew I’ve met, the two gigs we’ve done. What did I do with my passport and boarding pass? Oh, they’re in the inside zip pocket of my Hello Kitty bag, along with ... Samuel’s letter.

  Holy shit. I can’t believe it’s still there after all this time. Why haven’t I thrown it away? Burned it? It’s nothing to do with me anymore. That was someone else’s life. Damn it. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. Maybe I should read it. I’ve moved on enough, haven’t I? I think I’m ready – to get all the bad things out of my life, right now, so I can move forward without the weight of what the note might or might not say. I mean, what if the right moment never comes along, and I’m stuck with it forever? I should destroy it. Rip it into a million little pieces and let it float away in the wind at sea, like some funeral ceremony with ashes. Or a forgiveness ritual. I like that idea. I picture the pieces picked up and carried on the breeze, then being caught in a cross current and slamming back into my face. That’d be right.

  Still, then I’d never know, would I? I think I’ll bite the bullet tomorrow. Definitely. It’s time. Yes, I’ll read it tomorrow. Maybe. Hell, I wish I’d never remembered it.

  21. Prescience

  Day five and still no hairdryer. It’s good to finally feel almost human though. No more trying to sing with a blocked nose and raw throat, then falling into bed like a zombie. The crimson tide has finished too. Oh, happy day. Maybe I’ll actually enjoy tonight’s performance instead of being fuzzy headed on Codral and lemon, honey and brandy hot toddies (purely medicinal of course).

  Harry comes out of the bathroom wearing only his jeans while I
’m trying to wrangle my hair into tiny pigtails. I pause, distracted by his bare chest in the mirror.

  ‘Cute,’ he says.

  I go back to my fiddling. ‘Thanks. It’s called innovation in times of desperation.’

  I peek at his reflection again as he passes behind me. There’s a shiny, smooth scar, shaped like a wobbly pear, high on his right shoulder. Curious. I haven’t actually seen his chest naked before, except in the dark, and our moment of intimacy back home wasn’t exactly conducive to exploring skin. Nor have these past few days been, because of my face full of snot and riding the cotton pony. Not appetising – for either of us, I suspect, as he hasn’t given me more than a cheek or forehead peck since the night of the squall. Is it time to start sending signals?

  ‘This?’ he asks, noticing I’m fixated on his scar.

  I’m fearful he’s going to tell me a horror childhood story, like Snap’s. We can’t all have them, surely?

  ‘I was five, running around the backyard with no shirt,’ he says. ‘Decided I wanted to help with the BBQ. Dad said no, I said yes, whacked a bratwurst on the hot plate. Bam! Landed right in the fat catcher and sprayed me. I bawled all the way to the hospital.’

  ‘Oh, poor pet. You won’t do that again.’ Even as I say it, I’m flinching at how much it must have hurt.

  ‘What? No sympathy? I was just a little kid.’

  How can I not know this about him? All those years we spent growing up through high school, and there are still mysteries about him. He drags his shirt on with a hint of a smirk. He knows I’m watching. I don’t care. I’m enjoying the view.

  I point out that his face still has a little boy sweetness about it. ‘You would have been an adorable kid, all giggles and cheekiness.’

  ‘Don’t think my parents thought so. The term “terrible twos” was invented for me.’

  I don’t believe him. Look at his messy wet hair and fresh-from-the-shower flushed cheeks. So appealing. So hot.

  I pop a sparkly pink cowgirl hat on my head. It’s Country and Western night, and we’ve borrowed some props from the ship’s theatre. I’m wearing jeans, high heels and a checked shirt that I’ve tied and untied in front half a dozen times because I can’t decide if I look like a Barbie, or a trashy Kim Kardashian. I stand in front of the mirror, still not sure I’m comfortable with my midriff showing.