Floodtide Page 13

  Jools adored her big brother, and her time with him was particularly special now – she'd be leaving home next year.

  'I'm going east,' she'd announced at the dinner table just the previous month. 'To Sydney. Next year.'

  It hadn't been altogether unexpected. Jools's desire to be an actress had come under much discussion over the past year. Maggie, realising that her daughter was not to be swayed in her choice of career, had suggested that perhaps they should consider the National Institute of Dramatic Art.

  'If she passes the audition it's a two-year course,' she'd said to Jim. 'Formal training seems the way to go, don't you think?'

  But Jim had been surprisingly adamant in his refusal. 'If she wants to set her sights on university she has my full support,' he'd said rather stuffily, 'but what sort of career is it – dressing up and pretending to be someone else?' He was honestly mystified. Acting wasn't a career at all, it was a hobby. 'Let her do her plays and things in her spare time,' he'd said, 'I'm not sending her to NIDA.' He was disappointed in his daughter – Jools was a clever girl, she could have done well at uni. He'd refused to budge on the subject.

  Jools had taken up the gauntlet. The tomboy had become the rebel, and far from being deterred by her father's decision, she considered it a challenge. She'd make it on her own, she told him defiantly.

  After leaving school, she wisely took her mother's advice and did an evening course in shorthand and typing at Perth Technical College, at the same time auditioning for the ABC and becoming a regular performer in radio dramas and children's programs. Then, upon completing her secretarial course, she took up part-time office work while appearing in several productions at the Perth Playhouse.

  Already Jools was proving her point, and Jim had to admit he admired her tenacity.

  'She said she'd make it on her own, and I'm sure she will,' he told his wife by way of self-vindication. He knew Maggie hadn't agreed with his decision regarding NIDA.

  Jim secretly believed that his daughter would give up her acting nonsense when she met the right man and settled down to have a family. Just as he secretly believed that most women were destined to follow the same path eventually, even those who embarked upon an academic career. Jools's decision to waive a tertiary education was therefore a disappointment only. Had his son made a similar decision, it would have been a catastrophe.

  And now Jools had dropped her bombshell. She was heading east next year and, like her father, she refused to discuss the matter any further.

  With the exams only two weeks away, Mike realised that his father's warning had proved ominously true. He'd let his studies go downhill, and he'd have to swot like mad if he was to cram a year's study into the fortnight ahead. He stopped seeing the voluptuous Sophia – a second-year medical student with whom he'd been having a brief fling – and applied himself with a vengeance, managing to scrape through by the skin of his teeth. Ian Pemberton gained straight As as usual, with the minimum of effort.

  Jim McAllister wisely didn't make any 'I told you so' comments about his son's disappointing exam results. He was aware that Mike had given himself a scare, and that it was a lesson learned. Instead, he gave permission for Mike and his mates to take Alana to Rotto for a week.

  Rottnest Island had always been the favoured choice for students celebrating the end of a year's hard slog, and 1964 proved no exception. The beer garden at the Quokka Arms overlooking Thomson Bay teemed with young people rejoicing in their freedom and bent on having as wild a time as possible. Amongst them were Mike McAl-lister and his mates Ian Pemberton and young Murray Hatfield. In bathers and open shirts, the three downed jugs of beer, sang raucous rugby songs and flirted with the girls.

  Surprisingly enough, baby-faced Muzza, although hardly in Mike's league, was popular with the girls. Gregarious, earnest, there was an innocence about him that girls trusted. He was the boy next door and they let down their guard, realising only too late that, like all fit young men with raging libidos, Murray Hatfield was really interested in only one thing. But by then it was too late, they genuinely liked him. Everyone did. It was impossible to dislike Muzza.

  Ian Pemberton, however, continued to have trouble with girls. Despite his good looks, they didn't warm to him, and he always came off second best when he was in the company of Mike and Muzza. But fortunately for Pembo, this week at Rotto was not about girls. For once, beer and camaraderie took priority over scoring as the three gave themselves up to the sea and the sun and the Quokka Arms.

  Every now and then they'd wander down to the beach and throw themselves into the sea to sober up. Then, at the end of a boozy afternoon, they'd row themselves out in the dinghy to Alana where they'd share another few beers, have a swim off the boat, and finally collapse.

  Occasionally, they took a break from the frenzy of partying, and went fishing. They'd haul in by the dozen the herring and skipjack and garfish attracted to the oil streak and burley they'd put out from the stern of the boat. Or they'd drift beside the deep reefs and fish for snapper and dhufish. And when they returned to the mooring at Thomson Bay, they'd clean and fillet and cook up their catch on the old primus stove.

  Sometimes they'd walk around to Armstrong Bay and North Point on the extreme north side of the island, where they'd dive for crayfish. They'd build a campfire on the beach and boil up the crays in the old kerosene tin with the top cut off, and they always took several bottles of beer with them.

  Conversation inevitably turned to the future, a prospect which excited all three, although Ian tended to play it blasé. He enjoyed sending his mates up.

  'My God, I'm marooned on an island with two idealists,' he said mockingly one hot afternoon as they sprawled on the sand, bellies full of cray and into their fifth beers.

  'I'm not an idealist,' Muzza countered fuzzily, the combination of heat and alcohol clearly evident.

  'Oh yes, you are. Anyone who undertakes a degree in medicine has to be.'

  'I'm interested in the human body – that doesn't make me an idealist.'

  'Of course it does; you're the same as Mike. He wants to save the environment, you want to save lives. What's the difference?'

  Muzza liked being compared to Mike. Mike was his mate, but also a bit of a hero. He lapsed into contemplative silence, gazing at the sand for a moment or so. He'd never considered himself an idealist, but perhaps, deep down, he was. He certainly wanted to do something meaningful with his life. Perhaps his choice of medicine over architecture, which had also interested him, had been a subconscious decision to serve humanity in some way.

  'You know, I think you're right, Pembo.' Muzza looked up, his face aglow with drunken revelation. 'It never occurred to me before, but I think you're right. I think I am an idealist . . .'

  'Jesus Christ!' Ian guffawed. Muzza was so bloody gullible, so prone to suggestion – a real innocent. He raised his hands to the sky in prayer. 'Where are you, Spud?' he called out theatrically. 'I need you! Save me!'

  Mike laughed at the two of them. They were both pissed, but then again so was he.

  The others joined in his laughter, the subject was dropped, and they toasted Spud – the fourth musketeer. No-one knew exactly why Spud hadn't joined them. He'd certainly been invited. 'Too busy, Mikey,' he'd said. 'No time for a holiday. Besides, I haven't earned it the way you uni blokes have.

  Mike hadn't been sure what to make of the remark. Spud was hinting at some form of elitism, but was he sending them up? Was it just a good-natured dig, or did he feel excluded, as if they were a club to which he didn't belong? It had been impossible to tell. But Spud had remained adamant in his decision.

  'Have a good time,' he'd said. 'Bring me home a few crays.'

  Spud genuinely wished his mates well – they'd worked hard; they deserved a break. But they'd be back at uni next year, swotting away like mad, repeating the process with no money to show for it. What a waste of time.

  Both of Mike's guesses had been right on the money.

  One late afternoon, the boys a
sked a few girls along to Armstrong Bay and it turned into quite a party. They played the transistor radio at full volume, tucked into the freshly boiled crays, drank copious amounts of beer from the esky and, after they'd watched the sunset, they paired off. They went for a walk along the beach, or a wander around the point, and that night, amongst the nearby rocks and foothills, Ian Pemberton had no trouble at all scoring.

  Mike and Pembo and Muzza cemented their friendship at Rotto that year with what they agreed was the best week's holiday they'd ever had in their lives.

  The following February, Jools took off for Sydney and Mike embarked upon his honours year. The house seemed strangely quiet without the frenetic energy of Jools, and Baxter, now fat, aged and greying, pined.

  Jim's assessment that his son had learned a lesson had been correct. Mike's path in life was clearly defined, and he applied himself with a renewed passion to his chosen subjects of marine biology and ecology. He laid off the long drinking sessions with his mates, the motorbike became simply a mode of transport, and he stopped chasing girls. The latter was difficult, because very often they chased him.

  'Mike McAllister. Long time, no see.'

  Sophia was the first to greet him as he joined Muzza and the gang of eight, mainly girls, who were seated on communal benches either side of the long table in the centre of the beer garden.

  'G'day, Sophe. Two days qualifies as a long time, does it?' He gave her a quizzical grin, pretending that he hadn't got the hint and reminding her that he'd bumped into her in the refectory at lunchtime on Thursday.

  'You know what I mean.' She reached out and grabbed his hand, both the gesture and the tone of her voice suggestive.

  Of course he knew what she meant. Sophia had been his principal distraction towards the end of last year when they'd spent many a hot summer night in the Scarborough Beach surf club's old boatshed. Sophia's brother was a surf club member and she knew where they hid the key – she found the boatshed exciting, she'd said. So had Mike. Their regular trysts had contributed to his near downfall in the exams. Sophia was dangerous.

  'Come here, stranger, you're next to me.' She was seated in the middle, and shuffled along as she dragged him down beside her. He stepped over the bench, smiling an apology at the girl next to Sophia who was also forced to shuffle along and make room.

  'G'day, Muzza.'

  Mike's tone was pointed as he called to Muzza who was at the end of the table on the opposite side, his arm about a girl and in the throes of a serious chat-up.

  'Mike. G'day, mate.'

  Muzza, noticing Mike's arrival for the first time, gave him an apologetic shrug. It was Saturday arvo and the two had planned to meet for a quiet beer at the Nedlands Park Hotel, affectionately known as Steve's, but Muzza hadn't been able to resist joining his fellow medical students. Particularly as there'd been only two blokes at the table.

  Mike grinned – apology accepted and situation understood – but he wouldn't stay long, he decided. With the exception of Muzza, the others had obviously been here for some time and most seemed pretty well loaded. He was riding his bike, he couldn't afford to get legless. Besides, he'd planned to study this afternoon.

  Muzza made the introductions starting from his end of the table. There were several present whom Mike recognised from uni but didn't really know – they were all in second year. 'And Johanna Whitely.' Muzza finished with the young woman seated beside Mike at the end of the bench. 'Jo, Mike.'

  'Hello, Mike.'

  'Hello, Jo.'

  He'd seen her around the campus – it was difficult not to, she was very good-looking, in a different sort of way. A willowy girl, with fair hair and classical cheekbones, there was an elegance about her he'd admired. But there was also something a little aesthetic and remote, and he'd decided she was an intellectual, probably pretentious and not his type. But now, as her eyes met and held his, he did a quick rethink. There was nothing of the pseudo-intellectual about Johanna – to the contrary, there appeared no pretension at all. In the hazel-green eyes he saw candour, and what was possibly an acute intelligence. Whatever it was, he found the directness of her gaze just a little confronting.

  'I've seen you around,' he said. The opening gambit sounded pathetic, so he quickly added, 'You're in second-year med, right?'

  'Yes.' She'd seen him around too. Who hadn't? And she certainly knew of his exploits. All the girls talked about Mike McAllister – from what she could gather, half of them had slept with him. She could see why, he was devastatingly attractive. But she wasn't interested.

  'Hey, stranger.' It was Sophia again, tucking her arm into Mike's and literally hauling him in. 'Where've you been?'

  She was a little drunk, but she would have been much the same sober. Sophia pursued men unashamedly. She was forthright and sexy and not accustomed to being ignored, yet here they were, well into first term, and he hadn't even rung her. Not that Mike'd ever promised anything other than a good time, she had to admit, but there were no exams on the horizon now – surely he'd like to pick up where they'd left off.

  Mike wondered whether he could avoid Sophia by offering to buy the next round. He didn't have a beer himself, and the jug in the centre of the table was nearly empty, but he decided to meet her head on. Given the mood she was in, she'd only continue the pursuit.

  'Actually, Sophe,' he said, leaning in close, his tone intimate, 'I'm keeping pretty much to myself these days – concentrating on my studies, you know? I nearly bombed out last year.'

  'Well, we could meet for a coffee or something, couldn't we?' Her arm was still tucked into his and she wriggled beside him, sending a very positive signal that it wasn't coffee she had in mind but rather the Scarborough Beach surf club's old boatshed.

  'No,' he said, quietly but firmly, as he disengaged his arm, 'we couldn't.' He stood. 'My round,' he announced to the table, and picked up the empty jug.

  'Grab us two, will you, Mike,' Muzza said. 'I'll go you halves,' and he slid a note across the table. Muzza was still legally underage and with his baby face he looked it, so Mike always made his bar purchases for him, just to be on the safe side.

  'Right you are.'

  When Mike returned from the bar, he plonked the jugs on the table and sat beside Johanna. It appeared perfectly natural to sit at the end of the bench rather than climb over into the centre, but Sophia glowered, taking it as a personal insult.

  'Oh, I'm sorry,' he said, suddenly noticing that Johanna wasn't drinking beer but something that looked like a gin, or vodka, and tonic. As a rule, the students avoided the top shelf when they were drinking en masse – it was cheaper to stick to beer. 'What can I get you?' he asked. It was his round, after all. 'Gin and tonic?'

  'It's lemonade actually. But no, thanks,' she added as he started to rise. 'Let's face it, you can only take so much of the stuff.'

  He sat again, glad that the others were talking amongst themselves. Even Sophia, covering the slight she'd felt at her perceived insult, was now focusing her attention on the young man sitting opposite.

  'You don't drink then?' She was about the only uni student who didn't, he thought.

  'Good heavens above, no,' she said, wide-eyed, 'I'm underage.'

  He looked at her in amazement – she was joking, she had to be. Then she smiled. God, she was gorgeous, he thought.

  'Doesn't stop Muzza,' he grinned.

  'No. Muzza and I are the babies. Most of the others in our course took a year off after school.'

  'And you came straight to uni?'

  She nodded.