Chapter Eight – Andie
Chapter Eight
ANDIE
F resh island fruit for breakfast it is, I decide, plucking a pineapple from a farm stand on the road back to Moorings and turning it over in my hands. I asked, and the island breakfast Gods delivered! Ouch – I forgot about the spiky skin.
I set the pineapple down and reach for a punnet of plump strawberries. Not in the least bit yellow, but nothing a thick slathering of mango yoghurt can’t disguise. I’m the one who insisted on this strict colour-coded theme, so surely I can be the one to break it. I was so quick to go all-in on this event that I didn’t stop to think through the practicalities. There’s no way we can sustain this for an entire week.
My eyes search the unmanned counter for instructions on what to do next. I’ve only seen these sorts of set-ups in movies; I’ve never encountered one in real life. It’s an honour system, that much is clear, but where are the prices? All I see is butterflies drunk on nectar headbutting the medley of fruit on offer. If there was an honour box set-up where I live in Sydney, it would be syringes left in place of cash. That’s if the rats hadn’t gotten there first.
I don’t suppose they take payWave. Ah, yes! I remember, reaching into my purse, that Lizzie paid me in cash for her share of the accommodation rather than transferring it as requested. I stuff a wad of cash into the honour box. Surely fifty bucks will do. Then I scoop up a selection of colourful fruits – basically as much as I can carry. I should have grabbed a wheelbarrow from the river dock, but then again, I thought I’d be returning with a bag of fancy cardboard cartons from the brasserie.
My arms are already overflowing when I spot a watermelon the size of my head. Could I also carry a watermelon? I can’t help smiling to myself. I’m already feeling very Baby-like, what with my peek behind the curtain of local life at Charlie Farleys. When you go on holiday it’s easy to overlook the people who live there, clean your accommodation, serve up brunch and drive your boats. Or as it turns out, don’t drive your boats.
My mind slowly replays Jack’s parting words and the warmth that coursed through me when he effectively asked me on a date – at least, I think that’s what that was.
Leaves rustle above and I look up into the trees for a parrot. If my hands weren’t so full, I’d get some more footage for the short video I’m planning to make for Dad. It will be the first project of its kind I’ve attempted in years.
‘Hello there, dear!’ someone above me chirps, nearly causing me to drop my fruit.
It’s coming from the shorter tree, not the sky-high one with the rope swing that childhood dreams are made of.
‘Offft, you’ve made a fine selection there,’ the voice says. I tilt my head back to see a woman in her mid-sixties or so, wearing a hat decorated with a red silk scarf, perched at the top of a ladder. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m just liberating the last of my lemons! I can’t believe they held on this long – it’s already been a hotter-than-normal summer.’
‘Do you need any help?’ It doesn’t look particularly safe. One of her hands holds secateurs, the other is wrapped around the tree trunk.
‘I was just finishing up,’ she says. There’s a soft thud as a lemon drops on top of a towering pile of yellow at the foot of the tree. She climbs down after it, her hat floating to the ground in her wake. ‘Would you like some fresh mint from my garden to go with those strawberries? Perfect for mojitos.’
It seems rude to refuse her offer, even though I need to get back to the house. Who knows what might have unfolded in my absence?
‘Sounds lovely, thank you. Only if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘I need to get a basket for these lemons anyway.’ She pauses. ‘You look like you could do with a basket too.’
I leave my fruit by the lemon pile and follow the woman through an Alice in Wonderland -esque painted wooden door complete with a cast-iron knocker and a sign that reads: T RESPASSERS WILL BE COMPOSTED .
The garden is every bit as magical as the painted door. It’s unruly and overgrown, with gnomes guarding the wonky path. The woman’s hand trails over leaves and she murmurs to herself as we weave our way deep into the greenery, praising some plants for how well they’re doing and scolding others. But she doesn’t stop. She’s on a mission – like a child leading me to treasure she’s buried, her imagination the only map required.
‘Oh! Did you hear that?’ The woman slows and cups a hand behind an ear. ‘It’s a sharp-tailed sandpiper. One of the rarest birds on the island. I’ve been trying to capture it for weeks.’
‘Do you have an aviary?’ I ask.
‘No, dear. Capture the birdsong. A recording. I’m making a documentary about the island. Here we are, yes, right next to Billy’s chrysanthemums. You know, I never even planted any bulbs. I scattered his ashes here five years ago and they shot up on the first anniversary of his death. Isn’t that something?’
I nod dumbly.
‘Right. Where are you staying?’ the woman asks.
‘Moorings. The place right on the beach?’
‘Ah, yes. Lovely.’ Her eyes glaze over. ‘Make sure you get yourself out onto that floating lily pad at the beach one of these starry nights. Did you know there’s more stars in the sky than grains of sand on the Earth?’
Goosebumps run the length of my arms.
A lily pad.
‘No. I don’t think I did know that.’ I manage a smile for her, and she returns a warm, crinkly version, skin bunching around her eyes like crepe paper.
‘I’m Hazel, by the way,’ she says.
‘Andie.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Andie-girl. Now, we’ll get you a wheelbarrow for your goodies. That way you can carry the watermelon. Come back any time to return it and I’ll repay you with some passionfruit.’
Thank God the bucks aren’t home when I return. We devour the fruit – it’s juicy and sweet, with no trace of the tang of city chemical pesticides – and the girls shower me with compliments to pass on to Hazel.
I’ve become an expert at food preparation in recent years. Peeling, dicing, blitzing, arranging. I shudder as I think of the bleak tray meals Dad is eating now; I feel so guilty that this week, without me there to feed him, his meals will need to be pureed. Then I remind myself that the aged-care home has an on-site dietitian informing what calories and nutrients he needs for his bones and brain, so it doesn’t matter what form the food is in.
We’re still sitting around the kitchen counter when the boys return. Richie strides in first, a newspaper-wrapped package cradled under his arm. He pushes aside our empty platter and deposits it on the kitchen counter with a theatrical flourish, along with a few cans of Coke.
‘So, what’s on the agenda for today, ladies?’ he asks, unwrapping the package to reveal a mound of potato scallops. They’re arranged like lovely golden medallions, as if declaring the boys the champions of breakfast. ‘Quad biking? Paintballing? Fishing?’ He crunches into a scallop.
I do my best to ignore the fluffy white heart of potato perfection and the delicious smell, nearly as enticing as the bacon-and-egg baps. Our fruit platter suddenly seems underwhelming.
‘That would be D: none of the above,’ I say. After our shaky start, I’m determined to get this trip back on track to ensure Taylor has an unforgettable time. Hopefully we’ll hear from Jack shortly and the boys will be shipped off.
‘Fishing could be fun, don’t you think, Ands?’ Taylor catches my eye before directing her gaze towards Ben. ‘Provided one of you boys baits my hook?’
Innuendo or not, I haven’t had enough coffee for this.
‘Eww, Tay,’ Grace groans, echoing my sentiments. Thank goodness we seem to be on the same page this morning. I’m still puzzled by yesterday’s eye rolls.
‘Don’t you think it would be cute to catch our own dinner?’ Taylor exclaims, wide-eyed.
She’s about as familiar with the outdoors as Bear Grylls is with a sofa.
‘Sure . . . if that’s what you want to do,’ I say, reminding myself once again that it’s her trip.
Personally, I’d rather watch paint dry on the landscapes I intended us to try watercolouring this morning with some art supplies from school.
‘Awesome.’ Richie nudges Garth in his side, prompting him to grab the final scallop. The bench is now dusted with breadcrumbs and oily fingerprints. ‘We’ll go hunt down some fishing gear while you girls slip into your activewear sets. But I’ll warn you now – the fish won’t care if you look the part. Anything under thirteen centimetres will still need to be kissed and released.’
I snort. ‘That’s a very specific measurement.’
I’m aware I’ve taken his bait, but I’m pissed the bucks continue to disrupt my carefully laid plans.
Richie shrugs. ‘It’s Pearl Island regulation.’
‘And here I was thinking you were after a new Tinder pic,’ I retort.
Whichever clueless male started the rumour buried deep in a Reddit thread that the larger the fish, the bigger and more impressive women would assume their cock is, should be arrested.
‘Maybe you can get a new pic too, Ands?’
Taylor’s flippant question hits me square in the gut. She knows I’ve sworn off dating for the foreseeable future. Believing that anyone would want to endure the dreary doldrums of my day-to-day existence is like believing in Santa Claus. I’ve come to terms with the fact that my life right now is light on joy, and that the only person I can truly count on is myself.
‘Right!’ I say brightly, brushing off her question and pushing back my chair. ‘Who’s up for the first shower?’ I glance around at the girls.
Richie pulls a face. ‘Can you ladies try to lay off the toiletries a bit? Your tampons and shit have taken over the vanity.’
‘It’s like we want to lose you guys in ten minutes,’ I mutter through gritted teeth. Grace almost chokes on her laughter.
‘I’m going to check in with Rob and speak to the twins, so I’m happy to go last,’ Lizzie offers.
‘I’ll head up now then,’ I declare, moving towards the stairs. I push past Richie, who’s blocking the doorway. ‘Let’s hope none of my hair ends up in the shower drain,’ I say, my tone saccharine.
After what feels like hours standing on the beach with not a single bite to be had, we finally call it quits. It was evident from the moment Richie cast his borrowed fishing line into the reeds in the shallows that he had no idea what he was doing.
At 1 p.m. we return to Moorings empty-handed. The boys take quick showers, and disappointingly, no one mentions the clogged drain or the toiletries I’ve ensured have multiplied. They then head out for some makeshift axe-throwing activity. Fortunately, I don’t have to talk Taylor out of wanting to participate; her preference for keeping all of her fingers and toes intact does the trick.
We’re all hungry after our light brunch so Lizzie tries to spark the barbecue, declaring that she’s accompanied Rob on so many Bunnings trips that she’s absorbed how to ‘(wo) man the grill’ by osmosis. It’s not long before Grace takes over, countering that ‘lesbians know how to do everything – including barbecue – best’. But it fails to get hot enough to give the halloumi even a slight char. I’m relieved the boys aren’t here to gloat.
We end up grazing on a trio of dips and a platter of cheese and crackers instead. With no substantial food lining our bellies I’m grateful no one suggests opening a bottle of something. We’re still recovering from last night.
We don’t make it back outside, instead preferring to lie on the lounge on our phones with the air conditioning blasting. Our mysterious host, Clara, is paying the electricity bill after all.
It’s a group effort to clean up Taylor’s Instagram profile. We scroll back to 2015 and archive all the pictures of Mitch, then update her bio to Collecting experiences, not things – we all agree that it’s the perfect blend of whimsy and intrigue to let Mitch know she’s moved on, but with none of the details.
Around 3 p.m., Taylor confirms she still wants to eat at the bowling club as planned, so I slip upstairs, away from the endless stream of noisy TikToks, to call them for a reservation. There’s been no sign of the bucks’ group, but apparently Ben has contacted Taylor to let her know they’ll meet us at the club.
A minefield of balled-up damp towels greet me on the hallway floor – oh, this really is war!
I kick the one lurking outside my bedroom door out of the way, my heartbeat quickening as memories flood back. My ex-boyfriend, Luke, used to constantly toss his wet towel next to the laundry basket instead of in it. It felt like I was always picking up after him at home, and then after a teenage Toby at my parents’ house, as well as helping Mum with Dad.
The phone keeps ringing out. Island time is obviously a real thing.
I’m about to give up when a gruff-sounding man answers.
‘Booking?’ he repeats. ‘You won’t be needing one of those.’
I was expecting the island to be busier – although we haven’t ventured very far yet so the crowds could be hiding at some locals’ gem.
I book a table anyway – just for us girls – for 7 p.m., and ask if they have gluten-free options. I take the throaty grunt as an affirmative response. I’m half tempted to enquire if Richie has a booking and cancel it but figure they wouldn’t be that organised. Besides, I should keep it civil-ish if we still need to live together for the forseeable future.
I’ve barely ended the call when my phone lights up with a message.
I hear you lot are booked into the bowlo tonight?
I grin. There’s only one person that could be. Sure enough, above the message is a photo I received earlier of a fuzzy-looking parrot. It’s so low-quality, I didn’t even bother saving it to my phone.
And how did you hear that? I reply.
It’s a small island. Word travels fast.
Oh yes, you have those carrier parrots, don’t you?
I wanted to check that you have appropriate footwear.
I glance down at my sandal-clad feet. Surely an island bowling club, where answering the phone is optional, doesn’t have a strict dress code.
Example of said appropriate footwear?
A picture arrives. I click to see a blurry photo of Jack’s feet in Havaianas. His toes are covered in sand and cling to thongs that appear to have once been black but are now a washed-out grey. Of course, perpetually barefoot Jack is teasing.
You shouldn’t give away your feet pics for free , I type. Even 72 dpi feet.
I’m not. The cost of one foot pic is a foot pic.
Without thinking, I snap a photo of my sandals and send it.
Jack’s reply comes once I’m back downstairs and clearing away the dirty plates and half-eaten dips.
Pearl Island Bowlo approved.
Thank you. Btw any news from Clara? I’m not sure how much longer we can keep cohabiting . . .
I wipe the scallop crumbs off the counter – more aggressively than necessary.
You can’t just pretend they’re white noise?
I snort. I prefer my humpback whales not snore and leave their shit everywhere.
You’re right. I’m more partial to whales who don’t assault my fishing gear.
Ha. Just so you know, I had no part in that.
Oh, I know. And don’t worry, they’ll be out of your hair this evening. I’m escorting them to their new place before dinner.
My shoulders relax and I exhale slowly. Though I’m aware Jack didn’t sort things solely for me, it feels nice that, for once, someone else is taking charge.