Roadside Sisters (28 page)

Meredith turned and paddled back towards the beach—they looked like dolphins, certainly, but she thought they could also just as easily have been sharks. When her feet hit the bottom, she waded briskly back to shore.

Meredith laid her towel on the sand in the shade of a ti-tree, pulled on a gauzy beaded kaftan and surveyed the scene. Mothers
were bent over, walking toddlers through the froth at the water’s edge. Children dragged surf mats out to catch one more wave. A group of men stood at the top of the boat ramp, heads bowed in earnest discussion. The clouds had blown out to sea and the late afternoon sun slanted across the water, edging every ripple with amber glass. She counted the arrowheads of the Norfolk pines in the distance, black against the blue-grey hills behind. Eight of them. An auspicious number.

It was all just . . . perfect. Meredith retrieved her sudoku book and her pen, and stretched out on her stomach. Life was complete—she couldn’t think of one more thing she desired. Her shop stuffed with must-have homeware items seemed a million miles away. She thought she must be experiencing something as simple as happiness.

When Annie and Nina joined her on the sand, they were on a high.

‘They swam right under us!’ Nina was breathless with excitement and exertion. She wrapped her floral sarong up to her armpits over her faded bathers.

‘There must have been about six of them,’ Annie babbled like a child. ‘Dolphins, right under our feet—all around us. It was amazing!’ She shook the water from her red curls and towelled her slim legs. In her black jersey bikini, fastened with golden rings, she cut an enviable figure.

‘We’re so far from Melbourne,’ Nina marvelled. ‘I’ve never been this far north. We’re about halfway between Sydney and Brisbane. From here on in, it’ll start to be more tropical.’

‘Maybe we can buy mangoes and fix some daiquiris.’ Annie flapped her towel and then arranged herself on it.

‘There’s a couple of small shops over there behind the caravan park.’ Nina indicated behind her. ‘Maybe I can get some steaks. Do you fancy a barbecue for dinner?’

The evening’s timetable was drawn up and agreed upon—a last sunbake, a sunset walk on the beach, a barbecue, then Friday Night at the Scotts Head Bowling Club.

They were becoming a harmonious trio now, working in concert. As the darkness dropped a thick curtain on the four sides of the gas barbecue hut, they had all pitched in—one turning steaks, one making salad, one assembling condiments and cutlery. They ducked under and over each other, Annie’s lethal mango daiquiris in hand.

Praise was lavished on Nina’s aged balsamic vinegar and Meredith’s lovely table napkins—so much more
luxurious
than paper towels. Annie had flirted outrageously with the fishermen waiting next in line for the use of the barbecue. She happily tottered about in her bikini and a pair of black satin sling-backs, stopping now and then to shake the sand out of the toes.

After dinner they showered in the amenities block, tossing soap over the flimsy walls of the cubicles, handing bottles of shampoo underneath. They squeezed past each other in the confines of the van, and managed to pull together evening outfits and apply make-up.

It was about 8 pm when Annie, Nina and Meredith strolled into the Bowling Club dining room. After six nights on the road with just each other for company, it was exciting to be socialising. Annie was resplendent in one of her purchases from Toorak Road—a long paisley-printed jersey halter dress. She’d unearthed brand-new jewelled thongs to match. Her hair was pinned up in a tumbled confection of curls. She’d applied red lipstick and was wearing large diamanté hoop earrings. Tonight she turned the heads of most of the folk sitting at long tables wearing rumpled sandbagged T-shirts and scuzzy shorts.

Meredith was in a pristine cream scoop-necked top and had found the last pair of black linen trousers that weren’t creased beyond recognition. Linen! Why had she ever imagined she would find an iron on the road? She vowed that on her next trip she would pack non-crush fabrics, and was surprised to find herself already planning another adventure. Her silver hair was still damp, but drying into fetching feathery layers. Her make-up created a polished portrait of beige-iness, a triumph given that she’d primped using a hand mirror under a bedside reading light. The ubiquitous pearls were in evidence—tonight in drop earrings and threaded on a white ribbon. She was an elegant apparition in this setting of painted brick, carpet tiles and fluorescent lighting.

It was Nina who looked like she belonged in the Scotts Head Bowling Club. She had found a perfectly plain powder-blue cotton shirt and worn it over three-quarter-length black pants. She refused to change out of her old scuffed black leather slides. Meredith had provided her with a touch of glamour—ropes of
quartz beads and matching earrings. She hadn’t been up to the task of blow-drying her hair in the tiny, humid bathroom, so her blonde frizz was tied back with a gold lamé scrunchie—even though Annie had threatened to tear the offending item off her head and incinerate it with her cigarette lighter. Make-up had seemed unnecessary, but Annie had commanded Nina to sit on the bed while she attacked her with mascara and pink lip gloss.

They found themselves a table, and then wondered what they might do around it. Talk? To each other? They’d done enough of that for now. Most folks nearby were carting meals to tables from the open kitchen servery. Sunburned children ran up and down the swirly, carnival-coloured carpet and threw paper serviettes. Annie got to her feet and beckoned Meredith and Nina to follow her around the corner.

The brightly lit bar was crowded and lorded over by three animated television screens. The walls sported lawn bowls and fishing club paraphernalia—trophies, ribbons, team photographs—so that the blokes gathered there might understand they were in some sort of shrine to all things male and conduct themselves accordingly. With all due respect. The low-ceilinged room was humming with conversation—that particular low and resonant drone punctuated by loud oaths and hearty guffaws that Nina knew so well from the bars Brad inhabited at the football club.

However, there was one indication that Nina was far from Tigerland. One TV was broadcasting a game of Rugby League—the enemy football code. On the field were two teams Nina had never heard of—the Manly Sea Eagles and the Brisbane Broncos.
Their jerseys were garish stripes of burgundy and gold; maroon and white, combinations that Nina thought were more suited to Melbourne Cup jockeys than football players. As she tuned in to the game, she saw the action was horrifyingly brutal.

Annie ordered drinks at the bar and returned with three glasses of white wine. Nina took hers with a mimed ‘thanks’ and then, mesmerised, found herself an empty seat at a table where she could see the screen. The two blokes she was sitting with were wearing red-and-green banded footy jumpers. They were oddly quiet during the game. They drank their beers steadily while wincing and muttering the odd ‘fuck off’ or ‘fuck him’ or ‘fuck that’. The language didn’t bother Nina—it hardly registered with her. During half-time she found the chance to introduce herself to . . . Johnno and Robbie, as it turned out.

‘You’re not enjoying the game much?’ she ventured.

‘Fucken Manly,’ spat Johnno.

‘Bronco deadshits,’ added Robbie.

Again Nina wasn’t fazed. The world of blokes held few surprises for her. ‘So, I like your jumpers,’ she said. ‘Red and green. I don’t know the team.’

‘The colours are
cardinal
and
myrtle
. We go for the Rabbitohs,’ Johnno grudgingly replied.

‘Rabbits? They named a team after some
rabbits
?’ The comment was out of Nina’s mouth before she’d thought about it.

‘Rabbit-
ohs
!’ Robbie was clearly offended. ‘After the blokes who used to sell rabbits in the streets of Redfern during the Depression.’

‘Oh, that’s . . . interesting,’ was Nina’s hopeless response. ‘Actually, I’m married to a football player—Brad Brown.’

They both looked at her, clueless.

‘Brad Brown. “BB”. “Kingie”,’ she offered.

Still no response. Obviously more information was required.

‘He used to play with the Tigers,’ said Nina.

‘Balmain or Wests?’ asked Robbie.

‘Pardon?’

‘Balmain Tigers or Wests Tigers?’ asked Johnno slowly, as if Nina was mentally challenged.

‘The Richmond Tigers. AFL,’ she said proudly.

‘Fucken shit game,’ said Robbie.

‘Never heard of him,’ added Johnno.

They both took their beers, got up from the table and walked outside to the balcony, where Nina saw them laugh as they puffed on their smokes.

Nina was thrilled by this casual exchange, utterly thrilled. It was the first time in almost two decades that she had been with people who hadn’t heard of her husband! This called for another drink. She downed her wine and headed for the bar. Over in a corner she spied Meredith in the middle of a knot of men. Responding to Nina’s wave, Meredith indicated that, yes, she would like a refill.

When Nina scooped up the fresh supplies off the bar and edged her way through the patrons to where Meredith was surrounded by admirers, she wasn’t surprised to find the conversation was about fish. Meredith took the proffered drink, smiled at Nina
and again bent her head to listen. Nina had nothing to add, so she left Meredith to it and went off to find Annie.

‘. . . about ten snapper, a few morwong, a couple of samson—and all a decent size too,’ a tall red-headed man was saying. ‘And—you won’t credit this—but a pearl perch, I reckon close on three and a half kilo.’

‘Bulltwang! They don’t grow that big. You’re full of it, Meggsy!’ roared his offsider. He squeezed Meredith’s upper arm and leaned to whisper in her ear: ‘Don’t listen to him, love, he’s a total crap artist.’

At the closeness of his lips to her ear and the smell of his beery breath, Meredith felt a rush of . . . something she hadn’t felt for a long, long time. She looked up into his amused eyes that were deep blue tidal pools in his weathered brown face. Thick grey hair stood out in salt-stiffened tufts. Bill was his name. He smelled of the sea, and fish. Tiny translucent scales were caught in the cables of his Aran-knit jumper and Meredith fancied she’d been netted by King Neptune himself. She lurched on her white espadrilles.

‘Whoops! You right there?’ Bill threw his massive muscled forearm around Meredith’s shoulder to steady her. She could feel the heat of him through her clothes. Meredith didn’t object as his arm dropped to her waist. And stayed there.

‘But your pearl perch—it’s one of the most prized eating fish in Australia. Beautiful!’ Bill enthused, to the agreement of his mates. ‘Have you ever eaten pearl perch, Meredith?’

‘No, I don’t think I have.’

There was a murmur of disbelief and a shaking of heads at this sad confession.

‘I’ll have to take you out in the boat with me then and catch you one. Or maybe I should strip off and dive for pearls for you instead, seeing as you’re a pearl kind of girl.’

Bill reached to finger one of the pearls threaded on ribbon and as his calloused hand brushed her left breast Meredith was aware that her nipples tingled. She quickly folded her arms.

‘How long are you staying, did you say?’

‘Just till Sunday morning.’

‘Well,’ he said, leaning in to whisper in her ear again over the noisy hum of the room, ‘we haven’t got much time to get to know each other, have we?’

Annie stood on the outside deck of the club overlooking the smooth expanse of the bowling greens. The smoke from her cigarette curled under the eaves and then dissipated in the stiff breeze now blowing in from the beach.

She’d made a tour of the premises—inspected the carved wooden honour roll dedicated to ‘Those Who Served’ and the portrait of the Queen in a blue gown, a vase of kangaroo paw and wattle in evidence, and bearing the legend: NSW Women’s Bowling Association, 1989. As she wandered between tables, she had felt every eye surveying her outfit and felt more and more conspicuous. Finally, she’d taken refuge on the bench outside, ignoring the sly appraisal of the blokes in football jumpers in a huddle down one end of the concrete balcony.