How Do I Love Thee? Page 18

  Me and Kurt hold our breath. I look across at Rosie. She crosses her fingers for me and blows me a kiss. I swear I feel it hit me. It takes my breath away. I smile at her and know that nothing is going to go bad for us here. He shoots. Misses. Kurt steps up to the table and tries that cue behind the back shot that he’s never been able to master, but with the help of St Jack Daniels he pots the fourteen. Then he lines up the black and it’s like time stands still. It’s a real difficult shot. He’s got no chance of getting it. But maybe he has. But it’s too hard. But he’s grinning like he can feel it is going to go in. And I don’t care if he sinks it or not. Rosie is looking at me and smiling. Like there’s just the two of us on the island. And Kurt belts the ball and it goes flying down the table and into the corner pocket, and the cue follows after it, rolling slowly towards the hole, and we all hold our breath again. And just at the edge of the hole it encounters one of those small warps in the table and stops. We’ve won! We dance around the table and make the Fijians pose for a photo. I look at it later on the camera, and zoom in on the image, and can see that Kurt and I are grinning fit to bust, but the two Fijian guys don’t look so happy at all.

  ‘In the old days they’d kill us and cook us for that,’ I tell Kurt.

  ‘Let’s play again,’ says Kurt, high on the victory.

  ‘Nah, let’s not lose what we’ve got,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I could expect to get that lucky twice in life.’

  And that’s the story that’s really about me. Rosie used to date my elder brother, Martin. But he dumped her. Went overseas. Is living and working in California now. He never really loved her, see. Not like I did. I worshipped her, and hated him for the way he used to treat her. It took over a year before she agreed to go out with me after he left. And when she did I thought I was the luckiest guy alive. We went on a camping holiday to Tasmania. It was great for the first few days, but then things started getting awkward. Like Martin was sneaking into our tent at night and working his way in between us. I’d wake up in the night and find Rosie turned against the far wall of the tent, and I’d wonder if she was asleep or awake. Wonder what she was thinking of. Afraid to ask her in case I’d find out.

  Fiji was going to be our attempt at sorting things out. A chance to see if we could find a way to live together without the past intruding. A chance to look over the horizon and wonder if it was possible to see the future there.

  I’m wandering back up to our hut to fetch Rosie for dinner. She’s been having an afternoon sleep on her own. I pass the Germans. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Ja, good,’ one of the Helmuts says. I stand there and nod a bit. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ one of the girls asks me.

  ‘Australia,’ I said.

  ‘It is very nice there, yes?’

  ‘It’s not bad,’ I say.

  ‘You have good beaches, yes?’ asks one of the Helmuts.

  ‘Yeah, they’re pretty good.’

  ‘We love the beach,’ one of the girls says. She has on this blue bikini and is showing serious sunburn around the shoulders and back.

  ‘You can only dream of this in the winter in Hamburg,’ the other girl says. She has on a T-shirt and shorts. More clothes, less burn. And I suddenly wish I could remember their names. I think it would be really nice to just stand there and have a real conversation with them. Not tourist small talk. Ask them about how they met and what it’s like living in Germany, and what dreams they have for their futures.

  And one of the Helmuts asks me first, ‘Why do you come to Fiji? Why, if you can sit on the beach at your home?’

  I shrug. ‘Exactly because this is not home,’ I say.

  They look at me for a moment like they don’t quite understand what I’ve said. Like they really only want a tourist small-talk answer.

  ‘It’s real difficult to explain,’ I say and walk off towards our hut.

  It’s mine and Rosie’s last night on the island, and so the farewell song is sung for us and a few of the others. After dinner we tip-toe off into the darkness with Kurt and Ingrid, as Losana gets this new Danish guy and his French girlfriend to stand up and introduce themselves.

  The German backpackers, old hands now, laugh and watch their awkwardness.

  So we sit on the beach with Kurt and Ingrid once more, and tonight we talk about other holidays we’ve been on and others we’d like to go on, and how much you learn from travel. Rosie even tells them about our camping holiday in Tasmania. She says it was very idyllic, sleeping in small camping grounds in the mountains, listening to the sound of the bush. ‘It was so perfect,’ she says. ‘So quiet at times, you could hear thousands of years of silence.’

  And I realise, perhaps for the first time, that her memories of Tasmania are like she was on her own there.

  Just then Yoko from Kyoto and Aaron from Ireland walk past us and stop to talk for a moment. They’re leaving the island tomorrow too. They tell us how they wish they had more days together. He tells us that she’s flying back to Japan in the morning and he’s going to be flying on to New Zealand. I ask them if they’re going to get together again, and they look at each other and both look down at the ground and then say maybe. Then they wander off down the beach. I watch them go and then see them stop again. They’re talking to somebody else. It’s Jill! She’s been sitting down there by herself in the darkness.

  There are so many lonely souls in paradise, I think.

  That night the noise of a wind gust wakes me. There’s a storm outside. I look across at Rosie, fast asleep in the moonlight. Her naked tanned shoulders are so beautiful. I brush my lips against her gently and then climb out of bed. I go to the door of the hut and look out, but there’s no movement outside. It’s still and quiet. There’s no storm. No wind. I wonder for a moment what it was that I heard. I step outside the door and see this thin silver path of moonlight that stretches out across the dark ocean. It’s almost inviting me to walk along it. As if it’s going to take me somewhere. I stare at the distant horizon, but the line between the night sky and the ocean is too hard to discern, like they’ve merged into each other out there.

  I don’t know how long I stand there, looking into the darkness, before I go back to bed and wrap my arms tightly around Rosie. Holding her so close there’s nothing between us but the movement of our breathing.

  ‘I could live for times like this,’ I whisper.

  The next morning we pack up our things into Rosie’s backpack and my carry bag, and clean out our hut and shuffle our way down the beach towards the meals area. We don’t say much.

  Kurt and Ingrid come and sit with us and we make sure we’ve exchanged emails and contact details and make all those promises about organising to catch up with each other in Australia or in Austria some time. Kurt says they won’t be returning to Europe until the spring time there, and Ingrid says she’s in no rush to ever go back. I smile and tell them I know just what they mean, even though it’s just something to say.

  Going away is easy, but you always need to come home eventually.

  The boat comes put-put-putting across the calm blue sea and we carry our bags over the rickety pier, hugging Kurt and Ingrid over and over. Losana is there, as ever, to wave us away. We climb into the boat with Yoko from Kyoto and Aaron from Ireland, and then it’s all too quickly pulling away and weaving a question-mark shape through the reefs.

  Looking back at the island I really wish we weren’t leaving. Not just to hang out with Kurt and Ingrid some more. Not just to lie in the hammock and consider the horizon. There are so many things I still want to know. I want to ask Yoko and Aaron why they don’t just stay together. I want to ask the sad-looking English backpacker if somebody has broken her heart. I want to ask Jill what haunts her in the darkness that causes her to sit alone like she does. I want to ask Kurt and Ingrid if they worry about going back to Austria, and if they think life will be any different for them. And I want to ask the Fijians what they think about having to work twenty-fi
ve days straight on this small island, watching the fickle romances of Westerners, while probably having their own relationships suffer because of it.

  The boat rocks a little and I look across at Rosie.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ I ask her. That question I always put off asking.

  ‘That I’m so glad we came here,’ she says, putting a hand on my arm. ‘We should come back another time, shouldn’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say and look back to see the island starting to fade and soften like a fond memory. ‘We should.’

  NIGHT OF THE SUPERHEROES

  JUDY NEUMANN

  ‘I love thee freely, as men strive for Right’

  ‘Can I help you?’ Naomi called to Lulu, a towering transvestite with hot-pink hair. Lulu was browsing through the Mega Man section of Completist Comix Store. The rhinestone-clad lady, with beard stubble showing through her make-up, politely declined Naomi’s assistance.

  ‘I’m fine, honey. Just some retail therapy needed here.’ She smiled coquettishly, her head cocked to one side, causing her wig to slide askew. She quickly righted her coiffure with a pair of huge hairy hands.

  Naomi’s job at Completist Comix was never dull. As if to underline her point, a pseudo-vampire wearing fangs and a black cape lined in red satin came up to the cashier’s desk with several purchases. The dark, cavernous shop was lit by long, flickering fluorescent bulbs. It was housed in a quaint 1840s building smelling of dust and aged timber. Although Naomi loved the shop’s quirkiness and history, it was spooky enough to film the next sequel to Halloween.

  She’d found the place on her first day in Sydney and had known instantly she belonged here. Kismet, fate, destiny. She’d taken the ‘Help Wanted’ sign out of the window and the rest was history.

  Oxford Street was certainly a far cry from the country town where she’d grown up. Her parents still fretted over her, ringing Naomi often from their wholesome, peaceful farm.

  ‘How are you?’ they’d ask.

  ‘Fine,’ she’d habitually answer.

  They never seemed to believe her, sensing their twenty-year-old daughter had changed since moving to the city last year. If only they knew how much, they’d immediately drag her home again, locking her securely in the barn until she sprouted her first grey hair. The way things were going, she’d be turning grey in a month or two anyway.

  Though she’d only lived in the big smoke for twelve months, she’d already experienced a lifetime of trouble. After a string of ruined romantic relationships, a twice-burgled flat, a stolen car and a friend dying of a drug overdose, she’d grown a hard carapace for protection. Nobody got beyond the shell these days—it was safer that way.

  Despite the fact that calamity was always just around the corner, she stayed in the city. She found Sydney a stimulating, fascinating place, and a refreshing change from the deep quiet of her country roots. Oxford Street was packed with street people and eccentrics. It was always jumping—sometimes with rhythm, sometimes with lice. The misfits of the world magically fit in here.

  So, what am I doing on Oxford Street? I’m just as much of a misfit as Lulu, she decided—only a tad more normal looking on the outside.

  Gazing out the store window, she saw the health-food restaurant across the street, bedecked with signs promising sunshine, spiritual awakening and renewed vigour. Next to the restaurant was an alley filled with flyblown garbage bins and winos. Two doors down was a ritzy boutique selling designer sequins and lace. It was a confusing but exciting place to live, a neighbourhood with a psychosis.

  Her peaceful home town, that paragon of conservative values, was no better than the big bad city though. Recently she’d discovered an underbelly of wickedness about which her decent, loving parents had no idea, thank goodness.

  Roland Marstead had been her childhood idol. He’d been the football hero, son of the town’s richest man and handsome as a god. What young girl hadn’t drooled over him?

  Naomi hadn’t run in the same rarefied social circles as Roland so she really didn’t know him well. Also, he’d been a year ahead of her in school, and when you’re a teenager a year is like a decade. Their paths had hardly crossed, so she’d worshipped him from afar.

  On her last visit home, His Highness, the town prince, had actually deigned to notice her. She’d been flattered and flustered. It had felt like the end of a fairytale when Cinderella goes to the ball.

  ‘Hey, little Nay—you’re all grown up. When did that happen?’ he’d said, giving her a thorough once-over. He spoiled the effect of his admiration by adding, ‘One minute an ugly duckling and the next, a gorgeous swan.’

  She liked being called a gorgeous swan, but an ugly duckling? Okay, she’d been an awkward, skinny kid with wild curly hair and a sharp tongue. The ugly duckling comment had been a bit unfair though. No wonder he’d never looked at her in their younger days.

  Roland had certainly looked at her grown ‘swan’ self. Stared actually. In fact, he’d studied her body more carefully than he’d ever looked at a schoolbook. It had given her the creeps, truth be told. She’d felt like one of his dad’s cows being readied for the marketplace.

  Still, he was Roland Marstead. It was an honour to be drawn into his crowd. When he’d asked her out to dinner, she’d quickly accepted. Her parents had been proud. Roland’s father, Micky Marstead, was the most admired man in town. From a poverty-stricken start, he’d built a huge empire and now owned most of the town. Micky was popular, generous and amiable. Her folks naturally hoped his son would be the perfect match for their headstrong daughter.

  The evening had begun well. Roland had picked her up in his fancy sports car. He’d dressed in a designer shirt, complete with a logo on the pocket, and crisply pressed chinos. ‘I’ll bring Nay home early, sir,’ he’d promised as if they were still teenagers—and Naomi’s father had smiled warmly at his daughter’s beau.

  ‘Good man,’ her father had responded, shaking his hand as if they’d just closed a big deal.

  The night had deteriorated from there. Roland had taken her to the Drover’s Dog Pub, the seediest joint in town. She’d eaten a burger and nursed a beer. She wouldn’t have minded except her date hadn’t been interested in food or conversation. From the moment they sat down in a dark corner booth, he’d drunk steadily, pouring the whisky down his throat as if it were water. On his third scotch, he began nuzzling her and kissing her, continually trying to fondle her breasts and lift her skirt.

  A long line of his mates came by the table to sneer at her and wink at Roland. They didn’t even pretend to treat her with respect—she was just Roland’s anonymous squeeze. Though she’d grown up with these idiots, they’d never acknowledged her identity. They didn’t care who she was, as long as she was stupid enough to step out with their pal.

  When she’d had all she could take, Naomi had pinched her date on his upper arm, startling him into releasing his iron grip. She’d hurriedly slid out of his grasp and walked out of the bar in a huff while his mates laughed and catcalled her.

  Roland had come running after her, egged on by his friends’ ridicule. But Naomi had hidden behind a nearby parked truck. She watched as her date stumbled out into the street, yelling and shaking his fist at the moon. He peered into the darkness, trying to find her. Eventually, he gave up and staggered back into the pub.

  ‘How did the date go?’ her mother asked, smiling brightly when she’d finally arrived home. ‘Tell me everything.’

  Naomi had walked the two miles back to her home, nervous and jumpy. Every time she’d heard a car coming, she’d dived into a nearby field or ducked behind a tree. Her clothes were dirty and her hair was a mess.

  In one horrible evening, Roland had changed from her dream man into her nightmare. ‘It went fine,’ she’d lied, not wanting to worry her parents. ‘Great.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ her mother had winked, noticing her dishevelled appearance. ‘It’s okay. You’re an adult now. A grown woman. Your father and I know what it’s like.’ She looked s
o chuffed that Naomi didn’t have the heart to enlighten her mother on the real reason for her frazzled looks.

  ‘It’s too bad you have to leave for the city tomorrow. You and Roland could have gone out again. He’s such a nice boy.’

  It almost killed her to smile and say nothing. Though she missed her parents, she was incredibly relieved to leave the country and all its pitfalls.

  ‘I’m having a bad-hair day,’ sighed Lulu, tossing her purchases onto the counter and jolting Naomi back to the present. ‘Buying stuff always seems to help my self-esteem. Do you find that?’ She patted her pink beehive hairdo. If you heard her soft, gentle voice on the phone, you’d swear she was a woman. It was the black stubble on her cheeks, the bobbing Adam’s apple and a pair of enormous calloused hands which gave the game away.

  ‘I believe shopping cures all ills,’ Naomi nodded. ‘On the other hand, I think you look fabulous today, Lulu. Love the new wig.’

  Lulu giggled. ‘I appreciate it, honey.’ She fished in a tiny handbag for money, though it was difficult to get her thick fingers into its innards. Finally, she came up with a few multi-coloured notes and smiled brightly. ‘Here you are, honey. Keep the change.’ Naomi wondered momentarily about Lulu’s real name, the one her parents gave her. Harvey Rickenbach? Johnny Jones? Sometimes, it was better to be ignorant. Let Lulu keep her secrets—everybody had them.

  As Lulu waved breezily and flounced out the door, a vision from Naomi’s past entered like some surreal hallucination out of a fever dream. She had to blink hard, trying to dispel this trick of the light. Roland Marstead stood in the shop doorway, framed by bright sunlight as if surrounded by a body-sized halo.