Love...Under Different Skies (13 page)

“Oh come on, there must be some down there somewhere. Have another go.”

And with that, Jamie’s head disappears again.

I sigh.

It’s pointless.

If I was going to see a turtle, I would have by now.

But I did pay quite a lot of money to come on this trip, so what the hell. Let’s give it one last try.

I submerge my head and take another look around.

Even the fat, bored fish is nowhere to be seen now. It’s probably off warning all its friends about me.

Nope, it’s no good. There’s nothing else to see. Just large, pointy brown rocks and co—

Bugger me!

A flash of green flits across my field of vision. My head snaps around to follow it. I can see flippers. I can see a head. It looks wizened. Goddamn it, it’s a turtle!

I take off in frantic pursuit and can see Jamie doing likewise from my left-hand side. Thrashing around in the water for all I’m worth, I pursue my quarry across the reef. It darts left, then right, but I keep it in my sights. My lungs are burning and my legs are screaming at me to stop, but I can’t give up the chase now. This is my one and only chance to be friendly and caring with a turtle today, and if I have to catch the bastard and pin it against the nearest rock with my fist, I bloody well will.

The turtle starts to descend into the depths, and I try to follow it. In my headlong pursuit I forget that my head—including the snorkel—is now completely submerged under the water, and I try to take a breath. This brings the chase to an immediate halt as I inhale an unhealthy amount of seawater. Choking and coughing, I rise to the surface with ringing ears and a crushing sense of frustration.

I was so damn close. I nearly had the little sod where I wanted it. If only I’d brought a speargun!

Jamie helps me back to the boat. He once took a lifesaving course and is delighted to be able to put what he learned into action. This seems to consist of throttling the life out of me with one arm, while flailing the other and the rest of his extremities around in random fashion in the hope that it will in some way propel us both to safety.

I’m still spluttering and coughing as I climb back aboard. To add to this is the unpleasant sensation of having swallowed several mouthfuls of briny Australian ocean. I wrench off the wet suit in disgust and plonk myself back down on the seat with my head between my legs. Jamie comes and sits next to me, cycling through the hundreds of pictures of brown pointy creatures he’s just taken.

“How are you feeling?”

I look up at him and give him the best expression of utter misery I can muster without sending myself off into another coughing fit. “I wanted to see turtles, Jamie. They were supposed to gracefully weave their way around me. Why didn’t they want to weave, Jamie?”

“I don’t know.” A huge grin then appears on his face. “I got a picture of one!”

“Really?”

That would at least give us something to show our daughter. She might not be so angry at us, then, for dumping her in day care.

“Yeah, look!”

Jamie hands me the camera and I look at the display.

It’s less a turtle, more a small greenish-grey blur in the corner of a picture that is otherwise a murky sea green with some brown pointy creatures at the bottom. I’ve seen more convincing and clear photos of Bigfoot. But the look of happy achievement on Jamie’s face is so adorable I don’t want to ruin it.

“Well done. We’ll show it to Pops later.”

The rest of the group has made its way back to the boat. I hear Drunky and Jim moaning that they didn’t see many turtles either, but the others seem quite happy with their day’s animal watching. I guess Australian green turtles must have an innate dislike of people from the British Isles. I can’t think why—maybe we used to eat them during the days of the empire. I’ll have to look it up.

With everyone back on board, Daffo swings the boat around and we head back to shore.

While I’m deeply put out that the reef was predominantly brown and the turtles were predominantly missing in action, I’ve still enjoyed much of this trip. The sun above us is hot, the sea is a gorgeous shade of green, and the warm wind that ruffles my hair as we motor along is extremely pleasant. And I got to pet a dolphin, didn’t I? Alright, he did give me a snot facial, and I could have probably petted one without laying out a load of money, but I’m taking it as a win. The trip could have been a lot worse, all things considered.

Then we hit the rough water of the river mouth and the seawater I’ve swallowed interacts with the remains of the cinnamon doughnut in my stomach and I spend the remaining few minutes of our trip throwing up over the side of the boat. I can only hope that some of it landed on that sodding dolphin and gave him a dose of his own medicine.

I’ve banned oceanic pursuits for the foreseeable future. It seems the wisest course of action.

Still, this is by far and away the happiest I’ve seen Jamie look for a long time, making the queasy feeling I still have in my stomach more or less worth it. I’ll take nonexistent turtles and snotty dolphins over a miserable husband any day of the week.

Love you and miss you, Mum.

Your landlubber of a daughter, Laura

xx

JAMIE’S BLOG

Monday 17 July

Six months in Australia. It’s quite unbelievable.

When I was a kid, the prospect of a week in the Canary Islands sounded about the most exotic thing on the planet. The idea of spending half a year across the other side of the world would have completely blown my mind.

We’ve been in Australia long enough now to have dropped into a rather pleasant routine—pleasant, that is, provided you forget about my complete inability to find work.
Still
.

Aside from the $500 I earned at the end of last month doing some
extremely
freelance advertising copy for the local youth hostel, I haven’t been able to contribute to the family budget at all.

This means I’m getting ordered around a lot these days. As the breadwinner, Laura has naturally fallen into the dominant role and is the one holding the purse strings. Every morning, now, she issues me with a task, usually to go out and buy milk, or to make sure Poppy meets up with her friends from day care at the right time and place. I grit my teeth and accept the situation no matter how pathetic it makes me feel. I’m pretty sure Laura doesn’t like the dynamic any more than I do, but it’s the one we’re stuck with at the moment, and we both try to make the best of it until something changes.

I can tell Laura’s starting to get really twitchy about the whole situation, though. The air between us grows especially frigid whenever the subject of money comes up. Laura’s just about managing to keep a lid on it, but I can tell her frustration level is reaching a critical mass.

My priorities have, therefore, changed somewhat in my quest to find a job. It’s now no longer a question of just boosting my self-esteem but a matter of keeping my marriage on the straight and narrow.

I think it’s best if we gloss over those issues for now, though, as the whole thing depresses me if I think about it too much—and will no doubt depress you, too, if I keep moaning about it. You’re going to need your wits about you to cover the next few paragraphs with me, and I need you alert and upbeat from the outset.

As I was saying, our daily routine as a family largely consists of the following: We get up around seven thirty and have breakfast together. Laura gets ready for work while I play with Poppy. If it’s a day Poppy goes to day care, Laura leaves with her, dropping her off at Surf Tots before going to her job at Worongabba. I then fire up the laptop and write another couple of thousand words in the great Boobatron saga.

If it’s a day I have Poppy, we amble down to the swing park before I load her up with sweets and we spend the rest of the morning playing on the beach. I can’t tell you how much I enjoy this. This is the most time I’ve ever been able to spend with my amazing daughter and I’m loving every second of it.

I feel incredibly guilty that Laura is out working while I’m having a good time with Poppy, though. I want a job mainly for the money, but I won’t pretend that getting the guilt monkey off my back is not a powerful motivator as well. There are times when Poppy will sit at the dinner table telling Laura all about what she and I did that day, and I can see the regret in my wife’s eyes. I would like nothing more than to swap places with her even if just for one day, so she could spend the morning poking dead jellyfish and building sand castles, while I sit at a desk in a shirt and tie doing something productive.

The days in the warm Queensland sun seem to fly by, and before I know it, it’s about four thirty and Laura is coming in through the front door. Sometimes she’s tired and cranky from a hard day’s work, but most of the time she’s still quite bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Working for Worongabba may mean she doesn’t get to see much of her family, but Laura does love her job, of that there is no doubt. The most animated she ever gets is when she’s discussing her day with me. I don’t understand half of what she says, but I do my best to listen attentively. It’s the least I can do.

Once Laura gets her work clothes off and has a cup of tea, we either go for a walk along the beach, or if the temperature is still high enough we go for a swim. The latter pursuit is becoming rarer these days as it’s winter here now, but every now and again we get a gorgeous sunny day, just right for a late afternoon dip before dinner.

Such was the case on Friday. We spent half an hour mucking about in the cool, crystal clear Coolangatta water before towelling off and going back to the apartment for chili dogs and salad.

When we go swimming, I always tie my front-door key into the cord around the waist of my board shorts for safekeeping. It saves having to leave my keys on the beach while we’re in the water.

I’ve done this on many, many occasions and it’s never proved a problem before. Once we’re back at the apartment, I always put the key back on the key ring with the one for the car and all is well. This particular Friday, however, I neglect to put the front-door key back in its rightful place alongside the Magna’s, an oversight that will cause many problems in the very near future.

After the chili dogs, we discover that we are running low on milk for our customary early evening cuppa.

“I’ll just pop down to the shop on the corner,” I say and grab my keys, forgetting that the one to the apartment is still loosely tied into my shorts, which are now crumpled up in a heap in the bathroom.

“Okay, the Popster and I will come as well. I want some new hair bobbles and madam here wants the latest
Wiggles
magazine.”

Sidebar: If you’re unfamiliar with the Wiggles, they are an extremely popular group of Australian children’s entertainers consisting of four middle-aged men wearing brightly coloured costumes that wouldn’t look out of place on the
Starship Enterprise
. They are at the head of a global industry with a turnover of hundreds of millions of dollars every year and are in NO WAY really fucking creepy to look at.

So all three of us are now leaving the apartment. An apartment that has a very secure lock. The kind that when you slam the door it locks into place and won’t open again unless you have the key. Which of course I don’t. Sadly, I don’t realise this until it’s too late—by a few agonising microseconds.

I’m on the stairs that head down to the courtyard when the vision of my crumpled board shorts flashes across the front of my brain, desperate to get my attention before disaster strikes. I whip my head around to see Laura pulling the door closed.

“No, wait! I—”

But it’s no good. The door slams with undeniable finality.

“I haven’t got the key!” I cry and lunge at the door.

“What? Why not?”

“It’s still tied in my shorts,” I tell her as I pointlessly bang on the door.

“Why? You normally put it back on the key ring. Why didn’t you do it today?”

“Because I forgot, that’s why.”

“Oh you idiot, Jamie!”

“Sorry, I’m sorry!”

“What the hell are we going to do? It’s six thirty on Friday evening. No one’s in the office on-site.”

She’s right. This is the absolute worst time this could have happened.

“Maybe Mindy’s at home,” I say hopefully. “She might have keys to let us in. Stay here and I’ll go ask.”

I leave my wife and daughter at the door and run down the stairs, across the courtyard, and into the block on the far side of the swimming pool. Mindy is up in apartment 401 so I climb the stairs and bang on her door heavily, praying that she’ll answer.

The door swings open and I’m greeted by the rather lovely sight of Mindy in Lycra shorts and bra top holding a water bottle. Just behind her I can see a treadmill running in the corner and I can hear rock music playing from a stereo. She’s got a sweat on and her hair is a right mess, but Mindy has the advantage of being young and Australian, so she still manages to look extremely attractive despite the sweat stains.

“Hello,” she says, a hectic blush across her face caused by the exercise.

“Hello Mindy, sorry to interrupt your workout, but I’ve got a big problem.”

I proceed to explain the situation, hoping that Mindy can point me in the direction of a spare key.

“I’m really sorry,” she says, “but that apartment is privately owned, so I don’t have a key for it in my office here. They’ll have one at the main offices, but no one will be there this time of night.”

My heart sinks. “Oh.”

“I’m really sorry!”

“It’s not your fault. We’ll just have to think of something else. Maybe get a locksmith out if all else fails.”

“Yeah, we had to do that for Mrs. Spelnik in number two thirteen. Cost a lot, though.”

“How much?”

“It was in the evening too, so it was about three hundred dollars.”

“Really? It’ll be cheaper to stay in a hotel for the night.”

“Yeah, probably.” Mindy takes a long swig from her water bottle. This is entirely an unsuitable time for me to look at her breasts as she does this, but I do it anyway. “I really hope you can get it sorted out,” she continues. “You could have stayed here, but I have my friend Dan coming over later.” She holds out a hand. “It’s nothing serious, we’re just close friends. But I know he wants to take it to the next level. I’m not sure it’ll be a good idea, though.” Mindy cocks her head to one side. “Do you think I should just stay friends with him?”

“I don’t know Mindy,” I say in disbelief. Here I am in dire straits and she’s asking me about her relationship. “I have to go now.”

“Oh, okay. No worries.” She actually looks vaguely disappointed.

I’m sorry I can’t sort out your sex life for you, Mindy, but I have other priorities right now.

I trudge back down the stairs, across the courtyard, and back to our place.

“Nope, she’s no help,” I tell Laura when I get back. “Though we’re not getting a bloody locksmith out, they cost an arm and a leg.”

My wife is now crouched at the door handle, one of Poppy’s hairpins inserted into the lock, another pressed firmly between her lips.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“’Rying to ’ick the ’ock,” she says.

“Mummy’s being a spy!” Poppy adds.

“For God’s sakes Laura, this isn’t
Mission Impossible
.”

“No, it isn’t,” she snaps. “Tom Cruise wouldn’t get locked out of his bloody flat.”

She stands up again and picks up Poppy, whose mouth is starting to droop at either end in a sure sign that she’s getting upset.

“Don’t worry, Pops. Daddy will sort this out.”

Laura raises one eyebrow but remains silent.

Luckily, I have my mobile phone on me. I’d at least remembered to stick that and my wallet in my shorts’ pockets. I find our letting agent’s number and call. My heart sinks when I get a message indicating that the office is now closed until nine o’clock tomorrow.

So Mindy is no help, and the rest of the letting agency has buggered off for the day. The only other person with a spare key is the landlady, but she lives in Brisbane and is unlikely to be impressed with the notion of driving two hours down here to let us back into the apartment.

We are—as the Aborigines would say—up shit billabong without a narawang. Disconsolately, we shuffle down the stairs and sit on a couple of the sun loungers that are set up around the communal swimming pool.

“We’ll have to check into a hotel, then. I’ve got my wallet.”

“My pay’s just gone into the account for the month, so it should be okay. It’s going to cost a good hundred dollars plus though,” Laura says, the accusatory tone in her voice very evident.

“Alright, alright. Give me a break, will you?” I can feel myself getting angry out of sheer embarrassment. Not only have I got us locked out of our apartment, but it has to be Laura who bails us out because she’s the one with the job. Bringing this sore subject up again won’t help matters now though, so I look away from her and into the floodlit swimming pool, trying to calm myself down a bit.

“You folks alright?” a voice pipes up from the other side of the fence that runs around the edge of the pool area.

I look up to see Sandra, the housekeeper. “Hi Sandra. We’ve locked ourselves out.”

“What’s this
we
business?” Laura points out, which while factually correct is not particularly helpful at this trying time.

Sandra looks aghast. “Oh no, what are you going to do?”

“Check into a hotel, I guess. The one across the park is nearest. Then we’ll go get a spare from the agents tomorrow morning when they’re back.”

Sandra makes a face. “You don’t want to stay at that place, especially not on a Friday night. It gets really rowdy and your little one won’t like it.”

“Hi folks,” another voice says, and Bob, Sandra’s groundskeeper husband, appears from behind a thick palm tree. “How you going?” Bob is a big, bald, leathery Australian man.

“They’ve locked themselves out Bob,” Sandra tells him.

“Oh really? That’s a bugger,” Bob says.

“It is,” I agree.

A four-storey bugger with attractive sea views, in fact.

“They’re going to spend the night at the Ocean Bay, Bob.”

Bob sucks his teeth. “You don’t wanna be doing that. Not a salubrious environment once the old beer gets flowing, if you take my meaning.”

“I don’t think we have much choice,” Laura says, rocking a rapidly tiring Poppy in her arms.

“You could always come and stay with us,” Sandra offers, smiling broadly.

“Yeah! We’ve got room,” Bob adds.

Oh dear.
Oh dear, oh dear. This could be problematic. This is undoubtedly a very generous offer on Bob and Sandra’s part, but it puts Laura and me in something of an awkward position.

We’re both big on privacy, and spending a night with these kind folks would probably end up being uncomfortable in the extreme. Given the jobs they do here at the apartment block, I imagine their house is pretty small for starters. And it hasn’t been that long since our fateful night under Grant and Ellie’s roof. If we have a repeat performance of that, there’s every chance I’ll find myself on the other end of divorce proceedings in the not-too-distant future. I’d much rather find a hotel to spend the night in, even if it does cost us money.