Salvage (3 page)

‘Well, get yourself a drink and join us, Mel. Tell me about how life in the big smoke’s treating ya.’

Lunch never got made in the end, but Melanie broke out a platter of cheese and crackers and a bottle of chardonnay as the afternoon grew older. When the cheese was finished, Richard moved inside to prepare his signature dish, leaving Melanie and Jack to talk on the deck.

Melanie enjoyed chatting with Jack; his easy humour and funny yarns about life on the island always helped her to relax.

The sun was low on the horizon when Richard informed them dinner was ready. They stood, and Jack took her hand, holding her back from the door. ‘I was sorry to hear, when Richard told me.’

Her fingers caressed her locket, reaching for the few, downy strands of her daughter’s hair that were tucked within. ‘It happens.’

‘Doesn’t make it any less awful.’

‘No. No it doesn’t.’

‘How’re you faring?’

‘It’s been … almost five months now. We’re getting on with it.’

‘It?’

‘Life. You know.’

‘Trying again, you mean.’

‘No. Not just yet. Richard’s so busy with this big project, this just isn’t the right time.’

‘Of course. You’re only young. Time’s on your side.’

Richard leaned through the doorway. ‘Hey, food’s getting cold. Shall we eat out here?’

Melanie set the table. Friday, tail swinging, shadowed her every move.

Over dinner they talked politics, the weather, urban sprawl. When Richard started quoting Leanne’s thoughts on the future of Brisbane and its environs, Melanie pushed her plate away and picked up her wine glass instead.

Friday had eaten more of her meal than she had. Since she’d lost Claudia, Melanie hadn’t been able to stomach the taste of meat. Even the smell of it cooking nauseated her. She’d lost weight, she knew, even without Richard telling her how thin she’d become. She’d had to buy new dresses; her work uniform had become baggy.

‘That’s weird. What is that?’ Richard said. ‘A Muslim?’

Melanie followed the direction of Richard’s gaze. A figure was walking down the beach from the north, keeping well away from the waterline. A woman, in a strange ensemble of what looked like a beekeeper’s netted hat and a satin-shiny full-sleeved dress that glowed like amber in the late afternoon light.

The walker stopped opposite their cabin, in almost perfect alignment with the beacon off the beach.

‘I think that might be the woman who’s staying in Elysium,’ Jack said. ‘She’s not well, her husband told me.’

‘Certainly sun-smart,’ Richard said.

Friday barked, his snout pointed in her direction.

‘Hush, you,’ Jack grumbled at the dog. ‘They’re foreign, the Mediterranean I think. Maybe it’s their national dress.’

‘I wonder what she’s looking at,’ Richard said.

‘Us,’ Melanie answered.

‘How can you tell?’

‘I just can.’

Jack drained his stubby, stood, burped and apologised with a laugh. ‘I’d better go before you ask me to wash up.’

They said their goodbyes and Jack drove off, leaving a waft of diesel and the crunch of gears in his wake, the whine of the transmission audible even after the Rover had passed from sight. By the time they’d cleared the table, the sun was edging the tree-line behind the cabin, its dying rays tinting burnt-orange the cloud banks lined up thick and deep on the seaward horizon. The woman was still on the beach, sitting now and apparently watching the waves roll in. Gulls glowed sepia where they perched on the beacon, its steel post almost submerged by the tide.

‘Christ, what’s she doing now?’ Richard asked.

‘What’s that?’ Melanie had been enjoying the peace of the descending twilight, the calls of the birds, the susurration of the trees. Had been wondering how much grace the mosquitoes would give them before swarming; maybe the breeze was strong enough to keep them at bay tonight.

The woman had taken off her broad-brimmed hat. Short-cropped black hair crowned her boyish figure. With a simple flourish, she slipped out of her dress to stand naked with arms outstretched towards the setting sun. If she knew Richard and Melanie were watching, she gave no sign.

Richard’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, eyes glued to the spectacle. Melanie realised her breath was caught in her throat.

With legs shoulder-width apart and hands spread wide above her head, the woman seemed comfortable, as natural as the gulls. Melanie felt something inside her open, yearning for that sense of belonging. Her nipples tightened, and she felt a warmth in her groin that surprised her with its sudden intensity. This was not the slickness that came grudgingly from Richard’s probing, mechanical fingers, but a rush that seemed almost windborne. She wanted to be naked as well, free of the restraints of her clothing, free of everything. The sea called her and she was aware of one hand shaking, the other toying with the top button of her cardigan.

‘How old do you think she is?’ Richard said, his eyes fixed on that lithe form, so pale against the inky ocean, the descending night.

‘Hard to tell. Uni student, maybe?’ She sensed the thickening in Richard’s voice, could almost feel the heat of his arousal and felt guilty that she, too, had fallen prey to the reaction. ‘Uninhibited, at least.’

The woman turned to face the sea from which it seemed she might have climbed, Venus-like, lacking only a seashell carriage.

‘Must be European.’ Richard sipped his bourbon, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Whatever, she’s a pretty little thing.’

‘Pretty flat, you mean,’ Melanie said, and actually flinched at her own bitterness. Her own breasts, once shapely, were little more than worthless dugs. Richard used to worship at them; now he did not suckle or lick, merely twisted and kneaded as though they were the controls for a video game. 

‘Must be European,’ Richard repeated, ignoring her barb. ‘They have nudist beaches there, don’t they?’

The woman held out her arms to the ocean, as though inviting it—daring it—to take her. She was just a gleam, a ghost. And then she was gone, invisible in the night. 

Richard glanced at Melanie. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes roving over her from chest to crotch and back again before glancing towards the beach. ‘We should go inside. The bugs will be out soon.’

She nodded, angry that he had shared this sudden arousal, this flowering of awareness. That it wasn’t anything special.

Melanie stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Her finger throbbed where she’d cut it the night before. She felt restless, as though the wind in the trees was stirring her as well. It was kind of scary, being aware of her body again when for months it had seemed little more than meat, a cage for her sorrow.

Richard stood next to her, his hip brushing hers, his glass leaving wet circles on the bench.

‘Why did she do that?’ Melanie asked as she spooned tea into a pot.

‘Do what?’

‘Show herself like that. She must’ve known we could see her.’

‘Maybe not. Maybe the sun was in her eyes.’

‘It was so late, Richard. She must’ve been cold.’

‘I didn’t notice any goose pimples.’ 

Richard stood behind her, his body radiating heat as he scraped leftovers into the bin under the sink. His hand brushed her rump and she stiffened.

He washed his hands, dried them on a towel, and then gently laid them on her shoulders. The contact ran down to her toes and she felt her chest tighten, her mouth go dry. ‘Maybe she was teasing us,’ he said. ‘Showing off.’

‘Maybe.’

His hands moved down her arms to gently settle on her hips. He kissed her shoulders, her neck. She tilted her head, opening her throat to him.

The surf crashed loudly in her ears. Heat flooded her and she felt young again, almost carefree, and a knot in her lower stomach unravelled as his breath blew warm across her sensitive skin.

His lips, then teeth, closed on her skin. His hands moved, slowly, suggestively, towards her breasts that suddenly longed to be touched.

The phone rang.

For a moment, the buzzing seemed surreal; a sound heard from the other side of dream.

It rang again. 

Richard’s hands stilled on her body, and then were gone as he moved away, leaving her cold. She leaned back, chasing his heat, but he was already walking towards the phone on the wall.

‘Ignore it,’ she urged, desperate to cling to that moment of tenderness, to that feeling of … of renewal. ‘We’re on holiday.’

‘It might be important,’ Richard said. ‘Only Jack and the office have the number.’

She slumped against the bench, her body cooling, burgeoning lust subsiding into familiar despair.

‘Leanne, it’s Saturday night. Oh, I see. They have, hey? Fuck.’ He ran a hand through his hair, scratched at his scalp. ‘Tomorrow’s the best I can do. First barge is at seven, I think.’

Melanie stomped to the bathroom, stripped and stood under the shower, its spray as hot as she could tolerate. Tears filled her eyes.

Richard came in and stood by the door.

‘Hey,’ he said.

She didn’t move, just stood with her forehead against the tiles as the jet massaged her shoulders.

‘I’m sorry about that. It was Leanne. There’s a problem with the Mackenzie building. The bastards sent her an email. They want to cut the funding right back. Fucking thing will end up looking like a Soviet apartment building if I can’t convince them otherwise.’

‘Fine. Whatever.’

He reached for her. She closed her eyes, locking in the tears. His fingers stroked her shoulder. 

‘I’m sorry, Mel. We can come back as soon as it’s sorted. I’m sure Jack will let us extend the stay if we want to.’

‘I’m not going.’

‘What?’

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her arms crossed over her heat-flushed breasts, shower spray thumping against the back of her head.

‘I’m staying here.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

She locked her jaw against the trembling that threatened to unhinge her conviction. Said nothing. Faced the tiles again.

‘Okay, then. I’ll be back as soon as it’s sorted. Fine way to spend the weekend, hey?’

She kept her back to him, her mouth shut, feeling the water burning over the contours of her body. She wished he would leave, just
fuck off
if he was going to, but of course there were no barges tonight.

‘You can ring me on the landline if you have any problems. Or Jack, if it’s urgent. With the water or anything. The bore pump…’

She twisted the taps shut, stepped past him, ignoring the brush of his hands on her arms as she wrapped a towel about her and stalked, wet-footed and steam-hot, to the bed. She dressed in her tracksuit and tucked herself in, listening to Richard piss and then brush his teeth.

She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, as he settled in beside her. A hand hovered over her shoulder, then withdrew.

‘I’m sorry, hon. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.’

She stayed awake long after his breathing indicated he’d fallen asleep. She thought of the woman on the beach. She thought of reaching out to the sea and asking it to take her. She wondered if it would.

Melanie stayed in bed, dawn light filtering through the curtains as Richard packed the few things he’d need for his meeting. He swore a lot, Melanie noted with grim satisfaction.

He paused at the door. ‘You sure you won’t come with me?’

‘You’ll miss your ferry. Then what will Leanne do?’

‘Jesus, Mel, would you just let it go?’

She rolled over and pulled the blanket over her shoulder, blocking him from her view.

He muttered under his breath, slammed the door. Took off in a spray of pebbles and dirt. Guilt jolted through her: what if he crashed? What if this was the last time she’d see him? What if it was all her fault? All her fault, again.

God, how Richard’s mother had carried on after she’d lost the baby; about how Melanie shouldn’t have been carrying groceries or walking up stairs or eating sushi. What would the harridan say if Richard died because his fruitcake wife had lured him off to the island when he should’ve been in Brisbane, working?

She couldn’t sleep, but lacked the energy to get up. Finally, her bladder forced her to move, but she managed only to pee and make a cup of Earl Grey before crawling back into bed. She didn’t feel hungry, just empty. And so very, very tired. She lifted her book, and remembered how her pregnant workmate had greeted her when she’d gone into Shelley’s on her day off to collect her stash. Bec, with her wide-set eyes and crooked teeth and bulging belly. She’d hoped Bec wouldn’t be there, but there she’d been, waddling between the stacks, working ‘right up to the death—shit, sorry’, and that blush and those eyes that looked anywhere but at Melanie and her terribly flat, scarred stomach as they stood in uncomfortable silence amongst the children’s shelves.

Bec, who’d been excited about attending mothers’ groups for coffee and movies with Melanie, even though Melanie liked crime novels and Bec preferred Romance with a capital R.

Melanie wasn’t reading crime at the moment but had picked up some classics, ridiculously cheap even without her staff discount.
On the Beach
was the latest. She tried again to read, imagining that cloud of nuclear fallout creeping like a stain down from the northern hemisphere, slowly strangling the life out of Australia. How do you act when you know, with certainty, that death is coming sooner rather than later? 

It was a question both her parents had answered with stoic humour. They’d died only two years apart, her father going last and just a little apologetically, sad they hadn’t got to meet the grandchildren. She wondered if that was where the rift between Richard and her had begun, somewhere between caring for her withered father on home release or those nights spent on a cot in his room as his breath rattled feebly in his chest. Too tough, the doctors said; too stubborn to do what was best for himself and let go.

At least the characters in
On the Beach
had the choice of when and where. There was a romance, a decisiveness. There was none of that in the hospital with its antiseptic and gowns and hand wash, the pallor and sunken cheeks and protruding bones.