Saltskin (9 page)

'Well, all right then. I can tell by your face you're all
uptight and ready to have one of your tanties, but right
now I've got something for you.' She darted out the back,
her tattoo peeking out from her velvet waistband: two
triangles, one laid over the other, with the words 'Holy
Harlot'.

Gilda felt a wave of love for the woman and told herself
that everyone was suddenly interested in her dreams only
because she was fresh back in town. Old news could present
itself like new news. She also knew that her resistance to
talk about it now was to do with what she might find.
Madness. For she knew she could not enter the past without
encountering the shadow; she only hoped it wouldn't stick
to her. She was different now.

Gilda shook her head. No, she would never be mad
again; surely they could all see the difference in her?

Sophia, light on her feet despite being rotund, trotted
back in and heaved a box onto the counter. 'I got it a while
ago and rooted it out the moment I heard you had returned
to the fold. You've been missed, sugar. Enjoy.'

Gilda looked at Sophia and it struck her: She knows
something I don't.

'Now, if you don't act excited you'll ruin it for me and
I'll want to put it back where it came from.' The cigar in
her fingers reminded Gilda of Groucho Marx.

'A present? For me?' Gilda ripped away the brown paper
to reveal a vacuum cleaner box. 'You got me a Hoover?'

'Don't be daft — that's just the box. Open it!'

Gilda opened the box and carefully pulled out a tripod
and an old Canon T-50 camera. She was speechless. She
felt the weight of the machine in her hands. It was cool
and heavy, well loved by somebody, the lens scratch-free.
She turned the focus: nice precise clicks. Tears lumped in
her throat. 'Thank you. You always give the best presents.'

Sophia gave Gilda a thump on the back and started
fussing about taking stools down off tables. 'Got it off Tom
from his collection, and for a song once he knew it was for
you. Still, my girl, there's no such thing as a free lunch. I
expect you tarted up and behind the bar Friday night. You
can take that to mean lipstick and no gumboots, please. I
have a business to run, and I intend to milk your return for
all it's worth. Careful, that thing is loaded.'

'Surely you flatter me,' said Gilda, framing Sophia in
shot. It had been a long time since she had held her very
own camera in her hands. Her last had been lost in her
scramble to chase folly to the other side of the globe, and
her ambition to be a photographer had been lost with
it. Her mind could not shift off her fixation with Allan.
Colours had seemed brighter.

'I'll flatten you if you point that contraption at me!'
said Sophia, but she stopped and stiffened for the camera.
Click.

At this moment Tom came crashing in with a postcard,
carrying it before him like a baton to be exchanged in a
relay. He stopped, stunned, when he saw Gilda. He thrust
his hands behind his back and Gilda thought he was being
respectful, the way old men take off their hats for a lady or
open a door.

'Tom, thanks for the camera,' Gilda said, and embraced
him, planting a kiss on his long earlobe. Tom was one of
those old men whose nose and ears don't quite fit the face.
He blushed strawberry red and half frowned, half smiled.
His hands still behind his back, he did not hug her back.

'End of the week — Friday night, then,' yelled Gilda
over her shoulder as she pushed through the doors.

Only when she had left, with them peering at her from behind
the doorframe, apparently making sure she had really gone, did Tom, urged
on by Sophia flapping her hands through her cigar smoke, show Sophia the postcard.
She drew in her breath and Tom shoved a chair behind her knees. She sat staring
at the card. Then they looked at each other, like actors in a murder-in-the-manor
mystery.

Gilda wandered home blissfully taking photographs: the
fish 'n' chip shop, the post office, two schoolgirls chatting,
an old man pushing a pram, the river. She went down
streets she had forgotten existed, and back to the wharf.
Each photo helped her find her new place in the village:
looking through the lens made the ordinary extraordinary.
It was like seeing an old friend whose features had thickened
with time and yet underneath were still there, the lines of
their younger self.

When she reached the wide steps to the homestead
she took snaps of the mosaic around the bottom of the
first storey. Like the Chinese proverb that states: 'House
finished man finished', the family had pressed their own
art into the mosaic. Gilda as a child had made a flower out
of broken plates. Maggie and Martha, when they moved
back to the house to look after Gilda, had teamed up and
used natural stones to make a circle of four women holding
hands.

Most spectacular of all, seven feet tall and curved over
the doorframe, was a mermaid so intricately designed that
each piece was no larger than a fingernail. Her tail smooth
and raised, like scales on a real fish; the colours a mix of
purples and greens, vivid pinks, and every hue of the sunset
and every fish in the sea. No one knew who had made it
but everyone loved it. If there was an argument or a lull
in life, or someone needed to think, they would come to
the mermaid with a cheesecloth and soapy water and wipe
away the sand and salt.

Gilda snuck up the stairs to catch Martha and Maggie
unawares. The camera strap pulled pleasingly at the
back of her neck as she entertained visions of reviving
her darkroom. She tiptoed, wincing at the creaks in the
floorboards, suppressing a rising giggle. Her hand on the
banister felt the meld where the rimu gave way to beech, as
if they had run out of rimu partway through. Warm sounds
and cooking aromas came from the kitchen: pots steaming,
vegetables on the chopping board . . . It would make a nice
domestic shot. She could hear her own breath and tried to
still it. Sneaking, sneaking.

Pausing at the door she heard Martha say, 'Have you
told her about that man yet?'

'No, but I will. Let it be, and keep your voice down!'
Maggie hissed.

'Gilda's not here — but is it organised?'

Then Sophia's voice. 'No worries. He tells me it's well
on its way. Best not tell Gilda yet, though. She might not
approve. She'll get on her high horse.'

The women sniggered guiltily.

'I think we should tell her, prepare her. She doesn't like
surprises.' Martha was using the voice she used whenever
Gilda needed protecting: tough and sharp.

'Might scare her off,' said Maggie. 'Have you noticed
she hasn't unpacked yet? She'll know soon enough. Keep
an eye on that, and don't let it boil dry. I just want to put
a tarp over the sculpture. I think it's going to rain and I
haven't polyurethaned it yet.' She went out and the back
door slammed.

'Can I see it, then?' Martha demanded of Sophia.
'You've all seen it.'

'Not here, not now. And we haven't seen the real thing,
just a picture of it.'

'You're not going to let me, are you? You all think I'll
tell Gilda.'

'And you would. You'd take a bullet for her if you had
to.' Sophia laughed. There was the sound of bodies being
squashed, and a kind of squeak from Martha. Sophia's bear
hugs squeezed the air out of people.

Gilda put the lens cap back on the camera and quietly
moved away from the door. She went upstairs to her
bedroom. The wind had come up and the tower swayed a
little. She sat on her bed and stared at the yellow floor. The
long red curtains pooled on the boards, and in the light
they looked like blood. She heard the rev and farewell skid
of Sophia's old Harley, which looked like a cross between
a bicycle and a motorbike, with a lamp that ran on the
friction of the wheels. She could practically smell the blue
smoke from its exhaust.

Gilda groaned and put her head in her hands. What
man? What's on its way? She had to take control, be ready,
for something big was coming, she just knew it.

The Qualm's Arms was full. Whalers literally swung from
the rafters and spewed into the street. A piano winched
from a ship played raucous jigs in the corner, with a lovely
maiden perched on top, a man's hand up her skirt. Harlots
of every shape and size, every religion, every colour, danced
and flirted and sat on the knees of men lucky enough to
have a seat, a pint in one hand and a clutch of flesh in the
other: a breast, a hip, a buttock.

Some of the women belonged to travelling gangs of
prostitutes, in Jacob's River for the season; some came
with the ships as crew whores; others were local natives
and ones banished from their tribes up north or sent away
by the chief; still others belonged to the Rusty Rose next
door. Its windows were draped with makeshift curtains
made out of old tablecloths, petticoats and sheets. Grunts
and moans and pantomime sounds of rapture coloured the
night as sure as streamers and confetti.

Inside the Qualm's the air was musky, fogged with
tobacco smoke and noise: the hoo-ha of drunken males
telling tall tales. Grog flowed freely and cheaply out of the
barrels and into the men, who belched up clouds, pissed
and vomited on the floor. Pungent towels sodden with spit
and snot hung from a rail above the bar, and tens of pairs
of boots stomped to the tune of the piano.

Every evening was a carousel of debauchery.

It had been only a few days since Angelo's outburst
in Captain Angus' cabin. Angus had tried hard to keep
Angelo separate. He got him to row empty barrels to the
beach and full ones back. Put him to less bloody jobs, like
burying the skeletons in the sand, to be dug up later and
sawed into lengths of rib or jaw, dipped in brine, scraped
clean, carefully packed in wooden crates and much later
turned into carriage frames, skirt hoops and corsets.

Both Davy and Angus had wordlessly stayed close to
Angelo at all times. The rest of the men, like a pack of dogs,
waited for the signal to attack from their self-appointed
leader, Jake. Meanwhile they growled and barked at Angelo
whenever they could.

Angus sent word around that any man who harmed
Angelo would not be welcome on the Unicorn. Ten more
whalers had drowned or been fatally wounded; every ship
had its grievances. It was no longer about vindicating the
death of a man no one had particularly cared for — now
there was personal animosity towards Angelo. And yet no
one had confronted him outright. They sensed that he was
not quite the full quid and might respond unpredictably.
Men who spent their lives fighting could smell the survivor
on others; whoever holds the most power is king cock. And
there were a few quietly for, not against, Angelo.

Angelo stood awkwardly with Davy just inside the door
of the Qualm's Arms, mug in hand.

'Do you know how much money we've made?' Davy
shouted over the din, his breath spiced and fumed. 'If you
would only do the whole season and follow the whales
like the rest of the ships you could set yourself up with
whatever you wanted.'

'Maybe,' replied Angelo, his leather trousers squeaking
as he adjusted his weight.

'Anything you want,' Davy went on. 'Go on — name
what you want. Love? That what you want? Well, look
around at these squishy fillies here. You could buy seven
— they're here to sell themselves.'

'They're selling their souls,' said Angelo accusingly,
eyebrows arched.

'Pah. They all have souls to spare, my friend, and it's
only a bit of fun. You don't have to marry them, but by
God, I would have a harem. I would sell my soul for a
harem . . .'

'More is not the answer, Davy.'

'Nonsense. The more the merrier!'

In frustration, Angelo grabbed Davy's lapel and pulled
him to face him. 'The idea is not to have many women but
to love one well.' He himself could not conceive of settling
for anything less than the perfection of his mermaid. A
thousand women would never equal one mermaid.

'Each to his own,' quipped Davy. All very well for him,
he thought soberly. 'Sure, I'd like a woman to want me
more than anyone, but it's not really on the cards for me,
and you don't see me moping about what is not my fate.
You should take a leaf out of my book and just be merry.
What harm could it possibly do? Eh? You need to lose
your virginity forthwith!' Davy gave Angelo's face a light
slap.

Angelo coloured, his scalp sweated. Appalled at himself,
he pushed Davy's hand away angrily and tried to hide his
face.

Davy jigged from foot to foot. 'Oh aye, oh aye, we
need to get you bedded and tonight. Hell, we're like pigs
in clover!'

He held his eyes closed in a not-up-for-discussion way
and flapped his hands at Angelo. Angelo flapped back and
started to grin, and Davy threw his arm around his friend
in a wrestling embrace. 'That's my lad. Now, cast your eye
over our menagerie an' choose yourself a pretty birdie.'
Davy's voice was that of a side-show man at a fair. It didn't
matter in that moment whether the women individually
were fair or ugly, for all looked edible.

'Doves and swans,' said Angelo, laughing. 'I want to
mate for life, not for the night.' He meant it, but his eyes
drifted over the plush fabrics clinging and swinging around
the women. They looked so nice to touch, if slightly dirty:
deep crimson velvets, black lace. Corsets showcasing tiny
waists, folds of flesh rolled at the top. Others wore more
modern fashions of see-through layers of muslin, highwaisted
and short, showcasing ankles and the slant of the
shin. Some had jewels in their tiny ears that sparkled when
they moved, and chokers like slave shackles around their
necks.

Angelo's eyes drifted to their creamy breasts, pushed
up like dough in their bodices, and their illicitly swaying
hips. He noted their lovely hair piled high on their heads,
little wisps around their napes, and thought how nice it
would be to take the pins out and catch the cascade on his
face. He had no real understanding of the mechanics of
intercourse — he just wanted to touch them.

'They smell like heaven,' whispered Davy, like a devil
on his shoulder. 'Angels on Jacob's ladder.'

His mother was the only woman Angelo had ever
known, and he cherished her memory. And of course the
tapestry nymph, on whom he had set his heart. She was in a
class all her own, not like these women — these exuberantly
colourful women.

In the centre of the room three women set up a jig. They
kicked their legs in a flurry of undergarments, their feet taptap-
tapping, elbows bent and pumping, heads thrown back
in the frenzy of the dance. They winked and laughed at the
men clapping and egging them on, surrounding them as at
a cockfight.

Davy was entranced, his drunken face gleaming like a
sticky toffee apple. Angelo, too, was taken by the clever
little steps; he had never seen anything like it. His foot
began to tap.

To the side of the group a petite girl appraised the
dancers contemptuously, her eyes small black coals. She
wore a deep purple gown fastened high to the throat with
a row of small buttons like children's teeth. Her hair hung
loose about her shoulders, treacle toned and falling in
curls. Her companion was older, maybe twenty. She wore
black, her dusty hair pulled tight from her face in a bun,
her equine features both striking and common. She was
taller and skinnier but slouched in order to disguise her
height or lack of command. Her face was impassive.

The dancers finished their piece to applause and gave
sweeping bows from the waist, whereupon they were
engulfed by the surrounding men.

The gap where they had been did not immediately fill.
The pianist made tinkling noises on the piano, feeling his
way into a tune. Into the space – now treated like a stage –
stepped the young woman in the purple dress, ignoring the
stalling hand of her companion on her wrist. With closed
eyes she began to move, slowly, as if tuning in not to the
music but to herself. Then she started to dance with graceful
abandon: her body swayed and wove, her back arched, her
arms twirled and swept about, as hypnotic and compelling
as the dance of the seven veils. The room hushed. She was
a sprite in the woods — free and captivating, strong yet
vulnerable. Her elfin face lit by lanterns made her seem no
more than a child, yet her sensuous movements spoke of
womanhood.

The pianist modulated his playing to her moves. Time
stood still; not one man was in any doubt about how her
body must undulate and writhe beneath an experienced
hand. When she opened her eyes they were milky with her
private ardour, glazed and unseeing, as if she were invisible
and not being watched by every pair of eyes in the room.
Including Angelo's.

He felt he was watching a flower in the very act of
blooming. For a flicker her eyes connected with his and
he saw in them a spark of triumph that both perplexed
and angered him. The spell of the dance was broken; she
wound it down to a believable end, making it seem the
whole had been choreographed to finish at that moment.

Angie did not bow, but slowly turned around, eyeing
everyone from the centre of her circle. She knew every male
was enamoured of her. Then she broke into a grin and the
crowd whistled and clapped. Angie clicked her heels and
left the floor. A trio of women took the stage, but no one
was interested. The last dance had been a show-stopper.

Men inched towards Angie; edged their way, treating her
as too special to be approached directly. Dangerous men
were suddenly shy and wary, for rejection was certain.

Her companion, Mrs Faullen, cast worried looks about
the room, like a soldier in enemy territory, as she pushed
and shoved her charge towards the door. Miss Angela Swan
languidly allowed herself to be steered, all the while her
chin high, smirking.

'Jesus,' breathed Davy, 'she's coming over here!'

Angelo failed to notice the exact point at which Davy
fell in love. Meanwhile Mrs Faullen was fending off the
outstretched paws of the aroused men, who were distraught
at Angie's leaving.

Within arm's reach of Angelo and Davy, one of the
women who had danced in the trio, a spongy-hipped girl
who had never known what it was to be pretty, stepped
into Angie's path and spat in her face. An 'Oooh!' went
up in the room.

Angie's lip curled with distaste, her back stiffened in
indignation and she stood her ground, bestowing on the
woman a look of amusement: aristocratic, haughty.

Everyone held their breath.

The two women glared at each other.

Someone yelled, 'Catfight!'

Mrs Faullen's face was a mask, unemotional, but her
hands fretted about like beetles.

'You think you're too good for us lot, don't ya, Miss
Angie?'

'Indeed, I most certainly do,' Angie said in her refined
voice.

'Shit!' said Davy, and threw himself between Angie and
her aggressor, jutting the angry whore out of the way with
his rump. And, like a cannonball firing, a brawl exploded
in the bar with the gaiety of a wedding.

Angelo dived in to assist Davy, whose long hair was
being scragged by the jigger, its unfashionable queue skewwhiff.
Angelo did not know where to touch the woman and
ended up tickling her under the arms until she squirmed,
hissing threats at Angie: 'I'm going to have your guts for
garters; you're born, missy, but you're not buried.' Then
the whore let go and was absorbed by the scuffle.

The four of them launched themselves in a ball at the
door, tumbling into the street as if fleeing from a burning
building, destruction in their wake.

'Thank you,' said Angie and thrust her hand at Angelo.
'Miss Angela Swan. This is my governess, Mrs Orchid
Faullen. We are in debt to you for your kindness. How
may I repay you?'

Angelo had the uncomfortable feeling he was being
tricked. He did not take her hand but looked instead to
Davy, who was confused and felt obsolete.

'It was a pleasure, Miss Swan,' said Davy, shoving his
grubby hand into hers and putting himself between Angelo
and Angie.

Angie glanced briefly at him, making him feel an
impostor and a pest, but, having a second thought, she
smiled. 'And you are?'

'Mr Davy Mills, at your service.' He bowed deeply,
showing his balding head and the rat's tail of his dishevelled
queue at the nape of his neck.

Mrs Faullen had had enough. She put her hands firmly
on Angie's shoulders, snappily turned her around and went
to push her down the street.

Angie laughed and shrugged her companion off. She
turned back to Angelo. 'And you are, sir?'

Davy, bewildered, looked from Angie to Angelo. He
wanted to click his fingers or wave a hand between them.
Then he wanted to tackle Angelo to the ground and punch
him hard in the stomach, to wrap his arms around Angie
and crush her until she had no breath left. 'That's Angelo,'
he said flatly.

'Angelo? Oh là là — you and I are two angels, then, aren't
we?' Angie clapped her hands rapidly, her eyes intimate.

'You dance like an angel,' Angelo said, his face in a
pained expression. He didn't like her. He didn't like her
at all.

Angie's eyes flashed as though she were fighting,
not exchanging pleasantries, and she laughed, throwing
her head forward and then back. Her long white throat
was exposed. Angelo wanted to put his hands there and
squeeze. They twitched at his side.

Mrs Faullen was at her wits' end. 'Oh, for heaven's sake,
make haste. Good evening, gentlemen.' Without further
ado or a backward glance, she succeeded in leading Angie
away.

Davy and Angelo, each winded in his own way, watched
them make their way down the street until they were small
shadows.

'Well,' said Davy, 'there's the swan you requested,'
and in that instant he resolved to let Angelo have her. He
knew he could never hope to secure the affections of such
a woman. Not with his body lumpy, like the work of an
amateur potter. The realisation sobered and saddened him.
He looked at Angelo's stricken face and hated him fully
and wholeheartedly; then, quite as quickly, it dissipated.
He put his hand on Angelo's shoulder.