Saltskin (12 page)

The Qualm's Arms was humming. All the women danced to
the folk rock music and the lead singer, with his sunglasses
on, was toasting the barmaid — Gilda. She smiled and
ducked her head, yelping when Sophia pinched her on the
bum.

The atmosphere and the meditation of work relieved
Gilda of her own thoughts. The pain at the base of her
skull she masked with paracetamol and a shot of whisky,
both taken at regular intervals. She wore her hair freshly
brushed and, to please Sophia, a nice gingham blouse with
her jeans. No lipstick.

'What's wrong with him, eh? A nice rock star notch
would look good on your belt!' Sophia teased her, pulling
a steaming tray of glasses out of the dishwasher.

'I might have some competition,' yelled Gilda, nodding
at the cluster of females gyrating at the band's feet: peroxide
hair all yellow and fluffed like baby ducks, they were
bending under the lights, doing their own version of the
Dance of the Seven Veils. Gilda's heart went out to them.

'I'd say he would want a bit more class, by the looks of
him. He's like a young Mickey Rourke.' Sophia licked her
lips and reached above Gilda to hang the glasses.

'More like Roy Orbison,' said Gilda, cheekily poking
Sophia in the ribs as she leant across the bar to hear a
customer's order.

'Nice to see you, tits 'n' all,' grinned Val, an American
backpacker marooned in Riverton as if he were patiently
waiting for something to happen and couldn't leave until
it did. Underneath the yankee doodle he seemed a decent
bloke.

'Eh? What you drinking, Val?'

'What else, Gilda? Have you lost your touch?' He
grinned.

'Place your bloody order or get out of our hair!' boomed
Sophia, slamming her hand on the bar and making Val
jump. Gilda poured a pint of Speight's and Sophia pushed
the button on the till, glaring at Val. 'Ten dollars,' she
said.

'Huh?'

'"Huh?" ' mocked Sophia. 'Ten dollars including tip.'

Val dug in his pocket and took out a twenty-dollar note.
'I don't have a smaller bill,' he said, and Sophia snatched
it, put it in the till, bing. Val gazed, puzzled and hurt, at
Gilda, who winked.

'Don't worry. I'll give you another when you've finished
that.' She looked over his shoulder to the next in line, the
bar three deep in customers. 'Tom, what'll it be?'

'Hi, Ginger. I'm really lining up just to say hello, like
everyone else, but I guess I better get something. Got
any champagne?' His red face with the spidery broken
capillaries bulged with a self-conscious smile.

'Oh, you're a crack, Tom. How about Pink Chardon?
Been on ice since eighty-seven.' Gilda swung around and
took a bottle from the fridge. 'How many glasses?'

'Will you be joining me?'

'Maybe later, Tom,' she said, and gave him three flutes,
which he linked over his fingers.

'For you?' she said to the next in line, as Tom moved
reluctantly away, resolving to pop back when there were
fewer people around. He marvelled at how much the girl
resembled her mother.

The next punter shuffled forward. 'Nice to see you back
where you belong, Gilda. A glass of white, please.' Gilda
reached up and took down a wet, warm wine glass. She
gave it a practised twirl against her breast to clear off the
drips and poured some house white.

And so the night progressed. Gilda saw familiar faces
and some strangers who insisted she had babysat/snogged/
gone to school with them.

The pub was in full swing. Older gentlemen with greased
hair and high dress pants danced with their wives in their
cotton dresses, swooping and gently dipping them in the
old-time dance style. Others sat pot-bellied and cheery in
the booths against the wall, beaming at their sons in their
crisp white shirts and daughters in their tight jeans and
stilettos having a ball. Flirtations flew across the room like
coloured ribbons. The chandeliers were magnificent, all lit
up, and the band was fantastic.

Martha was dancing by herself on the other side of the
room but four men were slowly mincing in her direction
— soon she would be surrounded. She looked lovely as a
gypsy in jeans and the white chemise from the attic.

The band took a break but the sound system beat out
'Come On, Eileen' and the dancers kept dancing. Soft
furls of cigarette smoke had settled over the crowd and
Gilda thought it could have been the 1980s. She sighed
with nostalgia.

'Hey, darling,' said a soft crooner's voice, and Gilda
turned to see Ben from the band perched on a stool at the
bar. 'Ain't she gorgeous?' he said to his mate, a tall afrohaired
man with merry eyes.

'Whatever you say, Ben,' he said drolly, and smiled
openly at Gilda. 'Way too good for the likes of you.'

'Too true, Mr Ted Smith.' Ben sighed and raised his
eyebrows.

'Besides, any more barmaids and you'll explode,' teased
Ted.

'There's always room for one more,' laughed Ben, his
eye shifting to Gilda's beauty spot, and she laughed too.
'I have bar ladies to thank for my enduring career. They're
one of my favourite subjects.' He raised his glass of red
wine.

Gilda wiped the counter and moved away to take an
order. She felt Ben's eyes on her hips and gave them an
extra shimmy just because she could.

She had met enough musicians to know the drill — love
'em and leave 'em — and yet it was the musicians who, in the
end, seemed so unhappy, so love worn. Allan had played
the piano . . . The odd shock of him in her head after so
much peace made her smile. Oh, the absence of pain. She
glanced over at Ben and thought: If you can't hurt the one
you love, hurt the one you're with. She giggled to herself.

As she was serving she glanced up and saw Aunt
Maggie enter and seek out Martha. Maggie excitedly
pointed outside and the two of them pushed their way to
the window, cupping their eyes and peering out.

Sophia came up behind Gilda and said she was doing
an ashtray run. Gilda nodded and passed her the ice bucket
they used for ashes and butts.

'Darling, do you have children?' called Ben.

'No. You?' She glanced back to the window but Martha
and Maggie were gone. She saw Sophia nip outside.

'I've got plenty; just need to find womb for them,' Ben
quipped. Gilda took the teatowel off her shoulder and
flapped it at him, and Ted gave him a shove.

'What?'

Then, as of one mind, the crowd swelled like a wave
in a sports stadium and suddenly Gilda was overwhelmed
with orders. The band got up again and played all of the
favourites and everyone was happy. After some time,
during which Gilda made gin and tonics with one hand
and poured pints with the other, money in her teeth and
till wide open at the end of the bar, Sophia finally returned,
looking guilty. Gilda saw that the ice bucket had no butts
in it and she raised her eyebrows.

'I'm the boss,' said Sophia grumpily, shoving the ice
bucket away. Then she said more pleasantly, 'I can handle
this lot. Go and have a break.'

Gilda shrugged, took off the half apron with the
Qualm's logo and made her way out the back, past the
rubbish bins and empty crates. She breathed in the sea air
and listened to the waves crashing on the beach.

Joel, the chef, was outside smoking a cigarette, his skinny
arms shaking a little as he held the fag to his lips. He was
down from Auckland, recovering from a drug addiction,
but Gilda could see it was still uppermost in his mind. He
had a lovely face, with a dimple in his chin and dyed black
hair. Apparently he used to sing in a heavy metal band.

'Good band, eh,' said Gilda, leaning against the wall.

'Girls seem to like him,' said Joel, making smoke rings.

'Is that sour grapes on your breath?' teased Gilda.

'He's a bit flat, isn't he?'

'I think he always sings a little off — it's part of his
charm, his jazzy style.'

Joel made a guffaw and flicked his cigarette.

They were silent. Gilda let her hair down and ran her
fingers through it.

'You should wear your hair out,' said Joel, a little
intoxicated by her presence.

'Should I,' she said flatly.

Joel raised his hands in defence. 'Just trying to be
friendly,' he said. Gilda made a face and Joel lounged back
on the steps as if he were on a leather couch in a cool
nightclub. 'Been down to the beach much?'

Gilda felt a twinge on her scalp and suddenly she felt
hot. Joel saw her response and passed his glass to her.
'Sorry. I forgot about your mum. Sophia filled me in. I just
poked her with my finger and she never stopped talking.
Go on — only water.'

Gilda sipped from the glass and shook her head, but
said nothing. It should bother her that Sophia was so free
with her personal information, but she could never be truly
mad at Sophia. Besides, she wasn't even sure that was why
the mention of the beach had given her a shock. She gave
him back the glass and wiped her mouth, looking at him
from beneath her lashes. Not coy but wary.

'My mum died a few years ago too. I got this tattoo
to commemorate her.' Joel pulled up his white chef's
uniform sleeve and showed her an exquisite portrait of the
Madonna, artistically drawn, her face serene, Byzantine
beautiful.

'She's gorgeous,' whispered Gilda, pushing the sleeve up
a bit more to see the top of her head. Joel's arm twitched.
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .' She let go of his arm and Joel
started to laugh; it was a nice friendly laugh, and Gilda
smiled.

'We can't keep apologising for dead mothers,' he said.
'Let's not be tiptoeing around each other. Let's always be
frank with each other, and if not that then at least glib. I
like you, Gilda, and I promise not to try to kiss you.' His
big soulful eyes looked up at her.

We'll see about that, she thought. She thrust out her
hand and he shook it.

'I do need to go to the beach,' she said. 'I haven't since
I've been back. But I will.'

'I've got myself a freehold strip of paradise up the hill,
where the soil is rich for planting. From there you can see
the whole bay.'

Gilda smiled but was a little galled to find he had
that kind of money. It didn't fit him. But then she was
a hopeless reader of people. The mention of property, of
one of her peers making a go of it, highlighted to her how
far behind everyone else she was. A tiny bit of panic, clock
ticking, stirred in her stomach.

'Don't worry about the waves of sadness. They pass,'
said Joel, and went back inside. As he passed her, she
noticed he smelt of rosemary.

Gilda walked, stretching her legs, to the edge of the
property, where only a dirt road stood between her and
the beach. The full moon shone with abundance on the
sea. The night was still and almost warm; the storm had
cleared the air.

She gathered up her hair, went to put on a hair-tie, then
with a shrug let it fall loose again. She turned to make her
way back inside and as she moved she saw a figure walking
along the beach, tall and bent forward. Her stomach
flipped, the way it does in a car going over a dip in the road.
The figure, a man, opened his arms wide and shouted at
the sea, his words lost in the darkness, and Gilda thought,
I know you
.

Joel popped his head out the door. 'Mayday, mayday!'
he crowed. Gilda ran inside behind him.

It looked as if a busload of people had arrived. The
atmosphere had turned a little nasty, with not enough
space to move.

Sophia looked over at Joel, who was behind the bar
serving beer in his whites. 'Kitchen's closed; more ice!'
Gilda ran out the back again and filled up the ice bucket.
She could not resist one more look at the beach. But the
man had gone.

Like a wordless dance the three of them worked,
weaving in and out of each other, dipping and diving, each
intuiting the space of the other, reaching over and under.
Val had done a glass run for them and was stationed at the
dishwasher, processing the endless glasses. 'Thanks,' Gilda
said as she squeezed past him with an armload of beer to
restock the fridge. His body felt nice against her own and
she realised she was feeling frisky.

Come midnight, the party was in full swing and the bar
under control again.

Tom ordered eight glasses of raspberry and Coke and
eight packets of chips. Gilda raised her eyebrows in question
and he nodded towards the door. Gilda understood and
nodded, filled the order and carried the tray out the front
herself.

Eight young children sat swinging on the post that was
used to tie up horses in the olden days, a raggedy bunch of
local children, grubby-faced and overtired. When they saw
Gilda they all started yapping at once: 'Can you tell Mum
to come out'; 'I'm allowed beer'; 'Can you get one for my
brother'; 'Blanche has gone off with a boy.'

The hands grabbed the drinks from the tray and Gilda
had to use all her balancing skills to keep the ever-decreasing
load steady until the last one came off. The relief of the
weight was a treat and she leant her bum against the railing.
She glanced out towards the sea, vaguely looking for the
man she had seen earlier, but he was nowhere to be seen.

So Blanche had gone off with a boy, eh? Blanche was
Tom's daughter. Gilda peered into the darkness, worried for
the girl. She had given away her own virginity pre-puberty.
Blanche was only twelve, a skinny, mousy child with quite
a big chest for her age.

Gilda caught a glimpse of two shadowy figures on the
sand. She put the tray on the ground and snuck over to
the beach, crouched low and stealthy, commando style.
She hid in the flax bushes trying to decide what to do.
If she pounced and Blanche really was doing something
carnal all three would be embarrassed. And if she wasn't?
What the hell. Gilda scrunched up her energy and leapt
out roaring onto the sand. She felt delight at it shifting
beneath her as she yelled and whooped her way into the
darkness. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a boy and a
girl struggle to their feet. The boy took off; the girl stayed
put.