Roadside Sisters (9 page)

Nina thought of Annie’s bags of slinky designer clothes stashed in the back. Nina’s holiday wardrobe consisted of a few wraparound skirts, baggy shorts, T-shirts and a couple of loose shirts. There was nothing in her size in the smart boutiques of Toorak Road. The last time she had gone shopping—for an evening outfit to wear to last year’s televised Brownlow Medal count—she’d barricaded herself in a changing booth with a scrap of beaded taffeta that barely reached around her thighs, and cried for half an hour. The only thing she had bought was a pair of shoes. At least her feet were still the same size as they’d been on her wedding day. She’d cried again when she locked herself in the bedroom and wouldn’t come out, despite Brad banging on the door and telling her: ‘You’re the mother of my kids. I don’t care what bloody size you are.’

Nina remembered watching the red carpet arrivals on TV that Black Friday night, the camera zooming in on the footballers’ wives and girlfriends in their spangled, low-cut, clingy satin frocks—and howling again. When the chirpy host interviewed Brad ‘Kingie’ Brown and he lied to a million viewers telling them Nina had been forced to stay home because the kids had measles—and then blown her a kiss—it was only a carton of Cadbury Favourites and a bottle of Yellowglen sparkling that saved her from taking to an artery with a blunt pair of kitchen scissors.

Nina wrenched herself away from the window on the memory. Everything was going to be different from now on. She was determined it would be. ‘I did have a headscarf, but it was blue
gingham. And my dirndl skirt was embroidered red cotton, not hessian, thank you very much,’ she said with as much cheeriness as she could muster.

‘But was I right about the tractor?’

‘Ha! No prizes for that one, Annie. Every Ukrainian uncle had a tractor. She was green and her name was Vasylna, the Queen of Tractors!’

‘Well, there you go. My dad’s got a red Massey Ferguson he calls Eric!’ said Annie.

‘My mum had a Morris Minor she named—wait for it, ladies—“Morris”,’ Meredith added drily.

There was a welcome round of laughter and with it they realised that, at last, they had hit open country. With every kilometre travelled through the undulating dry paddocks, hearts grew lighter. This was an Australian landscape they knew well from when they were little girls looking out the window of the family car. At the horizon the heat haze dissolved land and sky in an airy confection of yellow and blue fairy floss. Through the middle the road was a flat black licorice strap.

Meredith wanted to shout: ‘Look everyone—cows. Real live cows!’ The first roadside stall they passed selling bunches of lavender and boxes of lemons, Nina had an urge to stop and buy the lot. Annie couldn’t take her eyes off the marshmallow clouds. It was as if she had looked up from the ground to see them for the very first time. They were flying now. Up and away and beyond everything, into the wild blue yonder.

When the RoadMaster crested the top of the hill on the Princes Highway overlooking the fishing port and holiday village of Lakes Entrance, the April sun was setting. The windscreen framed a scene of old-fashioned beauty that might have been hung on a drawing room wall. The surface of Lake Victoria was a shimmering violet-blue looking glass. The rigging and cables of the fishing boats were strung necklaces, spun gold by the sun’s last rays. A ruffle of frothy white lace surged at the neck of the shipping channel; beyond that was the Tasman Sea, which gave way to the vast Southern Ocean, its phosphorescent fabric of aquamarine brilliance fading to dark navy at the horizon.

Nina and Meredith, sitting up front, were stunned by the view. They fancied they were at the end of the earth and, for the first time, the promise of their trip right up the eastern edge of the Great Southern Land unrolled before them like a silken ribbon. A long, slow intake of breath was all Nina could manage.

‘It is truly and utterly spectacular.’ Meredith found voice for the both of them. ‘
Evening, When The Quiet East Flushes Faintly At The Sun’s Last Look
—that’s the title of my favourite Tom Roberts’ painting.’

‘Fuck Tom Roberts!’ Annie muttered as she sat at the table in the rear cabin and poured another glass of wine. She’d forgotten just how tedious long drives through the country could be and had drawn the curtains on the view of endless dreary sunburnt paddocks and scrawny gum trees following the course of dry creek beds. It was hard to muster any affection for this landscape scoured by livestock, ravaged by feral animals and brutalised by the drought.

Annie was dying for a cigarette and desperate for the loo. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to use the tiny claustrophobic bathroom in the back and had been hanging on for the past half-hour. She thought of her disabled BlackBerry in her handbag. God knows what she was missing out on. Just one commission on a multimillion-dollar mansion would pay for a holiday to a five-star spa in Thailand and she could be up to her neck in floating frangipanis. Just hours from civilisation and Annie was already cursing herself for agreeing to come on this stupid, hairbrained . . .

At the bottom of the hill the King of the Road slowed and turned to lumber along the main drag of darkened souvenir shops, deserted mini-golf courses and fast-food outlets now firing up neon lights in the lengthening shadows. Annie reluctantly resumed her place up front and was instantly revived by the salty smell of the sea. She was back there as a child on Christmas
holidays, sitting between her parents in the front seat of the Commodore. She clapped her hands with delight. ‘Can we buy some prawns at the Fisherman’s Co-op? There’s a pub—let’s go for a drink!’

The van stopped at a zebra crossing and Meredith noticed a surfer in a ludicrous pose. As if he was ‘
a hunk of burnin’ love
’. He was sporting board shorts and a knitted beanie and carrying a parcel of hot chips. She was confused for a moment by his street mime, but then she remembered the artwork on display. No doubt the multicoloured jewels on
The King’s
jumpsuit were glittering in the setting sun. What a sight they must look! Like the carnival had come to town. She ducked her head.

Annie cheered out loud at the surfie’s salutation and was suddenly inspired by the sight of the steaming takeaway. ‘Let’s get fish and chips for tea.’

‘For God’s sake, Annie, you’ll be wanting a game of mini-golf next!’ Nina was horrified to hear herself regurgitate this nag. ‘I mean—of course you can have whatever you want,’ she said quickly, hoping no-one had caught her mother-hen peck, ‘but we’ve got all this food in the fridge. I was thinking of maybe whipping up a grilled chicken salad.’

It was almost 7 pm and Nina had been awake since before dawn. In truth, about the last thing she wanted to eat was a salad. The thought of fish and chips was a delicious, greasy, salty, vinegary hug and Nina felt her willpower slipping off her like the transparent layers of a pickled onion. She looked at Meredith, hoping she would be outvoted.

‘Gorgeous! Haven’t had fish and chips for years,’ Meredith enthused. Nina’s shoulders sagged with gratitude. She slowed and parked alongside a papier-mâché shark hanging in a fishing net over the footpath.

Once the steamy, aromatic package of fried whiting, scallops and chips was in the van, the hunt for a place to stop for the night was on in earnest. Nina was driving and looking at the caravan park signs—
Lakes Haven, Lakes Ponderosa
,
Lakes Caravilla
. She peered beyond the thicket of tents, speedboats and four-wheel drives, trying to find a picturesque spot, but it was a pointless exercise in the gathering darkness. Garlands of fairy lights sparked into life in trees and very soon one spotlit caravan park entrance looked much the same as another.

Meredith and Annie were no help. They’d torn a hole in the paper fish-and-chips wrapping and were extracting tasty battered morsels. Like bloody seagulls, the pair of them, Nina thought with irritation. ‘Look, let’s just find ourselves a basic park and stop.’ She turned into the next caravan park driveway and leapt from her seat.

Annie licked salt from her fingers as she watched Nina slide open the glass door on the tatty little prefab building that was the park’s front office. ‘Remind me again,’ she asked, ‘what the hell are we doing here?’

‘We’re having an adventure, apparently.’ Meredith thought of her house back in Armadale. If she were at home she would be padding in silken slippers across her Tibetan wool rugs to the courtyard with a cup of chamomile tea.

Annie watched two grey-haired women in dressing gowns with damp towels slung over their shoulders shuffle along the path next to the van. They were nattering and swinging floral toiletry bags. ‘Looks like a whole lot of pensioners towing caravans ticked the same box,’ she said, fishing in the paper for another scorching chip. She imagined the scene at Jupiter’s Casino. At almost forty, Annie was the elder stateswoman at these events. The younger female delegates would be ordering in sugary fruit cocktails and complaining bitterly that the spa was booked out. Annie, who always arrived a day early and indulged herself in every pampering treatment on offer, would have already tipped the barman to stash a bottle of Stoli under the counter and put it on the company tab. But there was no point in thinking about any of this, she reflected. This ‘adventure’ was already past the point of no return. They’d hit base camp. No doubt there would be a lot of tricky terrain to negotiate before they saw home again.

‘Forty bucks for the night.’ Nina climbed back into the cabin. ‘A bargain, huh?’

‘If you don’t count the cost of the fuel . . .’ began Meredith.

‘There’s no use talking about cost. We’re going to have an experience money can’t buy.’ Nina waved the paper receipt. ‘Now we’re on lot 47 according to this . . . it’s down this road here. Close to the toilet block.’

‘God, I wish my mother could see me now.’ Annie leaned between the seats at Nina’s elbow. ‘That was always at the top of Mum’s agenda when we camped at Sorrento every Chrissy. “Brian, get as close as you can to the taps and the conveniences.”
Jean’s a nice country lady, of course, she still can’t bring herself to say “toilets”. Little does she know I first learned about sex in that caravan park. You can see right through canvas with a good light behind it. Kama Sutra shadow puppetry.’

Soon the RoadMaster was parked on a concrete pad underneath a gum tree, plugged in and humming with electricity. A bright and cosy nesting box for three hens who’d flown the coop. They’d scored a prime position—no campers either side. The standard-issue breeze-block conveniences were a short walk away through flower beds and, at the back of the van, the manicured lawn gave way to darkened scrubby bush.

Half an hour later Nina was stuffing paper wrappings into the plastic bin in the van and cursing herself for eating most of the fatty chips. She thought about breaking her promise not to use her mobile phone again. She shouldn’t have agreed to the pact in the first place. Nina had a young family at home and they needed to hear from her. It was something the other two couldn’t really understand. In the pool of light coming from the van’s windows she could see Annie outside, now wearing a stylish pale-blue velour tracksuit and white ballet flats. She was sitting back in a canvas camp chair, on her third cigarette and nursing a champagne flute. Where does she think she is, thought Nina—
St Bloody Tropez
?

Nina fished for her phone, tucked it up her sleeve, stepped into the bathroom and called the home number. No answer. Then Brad and Jordy’s mobile phones. No answer again. Where were they? In the lounge room, making some point by not picking up? Or had Brad taken the boys to Wanda’s for their
favourite meal of borscht with herb dumplings while her own maternal offerings sat unwanted—a pile of freezing bricks? She willed herself not to call her mother or leave any messages.

When Nina finally made her way down the van’s steps she found Annie and Meredith both leaning back and surveying the starry southern skies. Neither of them could remember the last time they’d sat in a camp chair in the dark, so maybe they were having an adventure. Nina was mugged by the beauty of the rising moon, its edges hazy with a silver corona of salt and surf thrown up by the sea. The night was warm and clear.

‘I’m trying to remember the last time I looked at the stars.’ Meredith regarded the sequinned heavens. ‘You know—really looked. Did you ever try to count the stars when you were little?’ She held out her empty glass for a refill.

Annie retrieved the bottle of champagne from the shadows. ‘There’s about a hundred billion of ’em last time anyone counted, and between 56 and 250 million bubbles in a bottle of champagne—depending on which estimate you want to believe.’

‘Someone counted champagne bubbles?’ Meredith licked the rim of her Danish crystal champagne flute etched with stalks of wheat.

‘When Dom Perignon first tasted champagne, they reckon he said: “Come quickly, I am drinking the stars.” But then, he was pissed at the time!’ Annie grinned and held up the bottle to Nina.

‘Come on, Nina, have a champers.’ Meredith produced another flute and they were all amazed to hear the fizzing of
the bubbles in the quiet, even as they could hear the distant tumbling surf.

Nina found some absolution in her glass. She forgave herself for the chips . . . the piece of fish, two potato cakes and three fried scallops. It was the last meal of the condemned fat woman. That’s how she’d think of it. The harsh words between her and Brad? That was understandable. They were both trying to navigate their way through this unfamiliar scenario. She’d never done this before—left her family to fly solo. Now, after weeks of planning all their lives to the last detail, she was on the road and travelling north away from everything she knew. She had wished for this for so long and resolved not to miss what was in front of her.

Nina kicked off her rubber thongs and dug her toes into the damp grass. Who, she wondered, was this anonymous woman, more than three hundred kilometres from all care and responsibility, listening to the surf pounding beyond the dunes?