Hope tricks you every time
It was only two days before the festival and still no word from Lilli. No letter, no parcel of sweets. Chicken checked the letterbox morning and evening, looked in the pigeonholes in the office, the drawers, in the stand which held the pamphlets. A letter had usually arrived by now. Perhaps it was lost; perhaps the one Chicken sent had gone astray. Or worse—Lilli was ignoring the letter because Chicken had stopped being cheery and happy. Lilli could at least have given some sign of recognition, like a postcard, or returned the torn photo. Chicken regretted sending it now. It was probably the last she’d ever see of it. What did Lilli say? Just because something disappears doesn’t mean you’ll never see it again? Yeah, right.
Hope was a smiling woman who led you along with promises then left you stranded in disappointment. It would be better not to care about anything, to never have had a sister than one who doesn’t come to see you. It was better not to hope because hope tricks you every time.
‘C’mon, Chicken, get a move on,’ said Violet. They were upstairs folding quilt covers, preparing for guests. Chicken could see the ferry from Boat Harbour, still small and far away, but it wouldn’t be long before it reached the island and there’d be another call on the loudspeaker. Not only was the afternoon ferry bringing Violet’s guests, but also extra supplies. In the days leading up to the festival the women were busy making dough for fried pastries, threading squid on skewers, making fish patties and soup. On the morning of the festival, the ferry delivered bags of ice so that the drinks sold at the food stalls would be nice and cold. There was lots to do, the rhythm of the days punctuated by announcements over the island’s public address system for helpers. Everyone turned up and did their bit.
Nori was at the beach with a couple of the other men. They were pruning, clearing unruly vegetation away from the shrine, setting up benches in the VIP pavilion where the mayor of Boat Harbour and other special guests would watch the festivities and be served refreshments of sea urchin and cold beer.
‘Any letters for me, Mum?’ asked Chicken. She tried to make it sound as if it was a thought that had just come to her, not one she’d been gnawing at for days.
‘No. Why?’ Violet was holding two corners of the cover, one in each hand. Chicken was standing opposite her mother doing the same, the fabric stretched taut between them.
Chicken knew Violet would already have said if a letter had arrived but she had to ask. ‘Oh, nothing in particular.’ Chicken walked decisively up to her mother and handed her the two corners. They had made the first fold.
‘Are you expecting something?’ Violet asked with an indulgent sort of smile.
Chicken looked at her now empty hands. ‘No.’ She rummaged in the clothes basket while Violet placed the neatly folded cover in the cupboard for the guests.
The ferry was so close now you could see the little squares of windows. Chicken scanned each one.
‘She’s probably just forgotten,’ Violet said. Chicken hated it when her mother knew what she was thinking about.
‘She’s never forgotten before,’ Chicken replied.
‘She might be in the Amazon, perhaps some place where there’s no mail service.’
‘No matter where she is, she always sends something.’
‘Well, there’s still a couple of days to go,’ Violet reminded her daughter. ‘I wonder where your father is?’
‘At the beach.’
Violet already knew that. Hopefully he had spotted the ferry further out. When it got closer and headed for the harbour, you couldn’t see it from the beach. Violet had assumed he’d come home first and change before picking up the tourists in his van. He was representing the household and first impressions counted. She didn’t want him looking like he’d just come off a building site.
The whole island was caught up in preparations but the festival wasn’t real anymore, just a re-enactment. It was supposed to be for the gods, to express gratitude to the sea, but it had become entertainment for tourists. There were no longer any abalone to be found off the beach, so early on festival morning a boat dumped farmed ones into the water which the divers retrieved to be returned to the co-op. It was possible that they weren’t even abalone, just the shells. The ‘diver of the year’, the woman who on festival day was the first to find a pair of abalone, male and female, had already been picked out—a photogenic young high-school girl. On the day of the festival she didn’t go anywhere near the water.
Chicken remembered what she’d said to Keri: ‘Someone has to show the tourists what we do.’ It was all for show, for the cameramen and tourists. And now Chicken was folding their futon covers.
Bloody tourists. Chicken’s breath huffed out of her. It wasn’t the soulful whistling of diving women, more like the steamy snort of a bull. She left the clothes basket and headed off.
‘Chicken,’ her mother called after her, ‘where are you going? The guests will be here any minute.’
‘Out.’
Chicken stormed down the hill with no particular destination in mind, simply to get away. She kept on going, past the port parking area and the people waiting for the ferry which was entering the harbour. She found herself at the tsunami warning sign near the seawall. Perfect. A big angry wave looming over a little boy and a white-spotted dog who were trying to run from it, their fishing line and bucket abandoned. Even the worm used for bait was trying to escape. The wave was dark blue with glaring white eyes and an angry red jagged mouth. Over the face of the wave was a white fringe of foam that extended into fat clutching fingers. Urgent little white drops were coming off everything in the poster—the wave, the boy, dog and worm.
Chicken sat down beneath the imminence of the wave, her forehead and the back of her neck beading with sweat. She glared up at the wave, fixed at its crest. This was one wave that wasn’t going to come crashing down on her.
Something sharp was sticking into her bottom. A shell. She was sitting in debris—shells, bottle tops, broken plastic cups, a f lattened cigarette packet that had once been blue. No doubt this would be all swept away before the festival. Must have the island looking spick and span for the tourists. A couple of seagulls landed on top of the tsunami billboard, then swooped down in front of her, sensing a possible source of food. Chicken shooed them away.
A folk tune snaked its way out of the school grounds—Ry rehearsing the festival dancers. Chicken pictured them going around in a circle, holding decorative sticks, waving them about. And now, yes, when the music changed, they would go back the other way.
Chicken started scraping a shell along the ground, making an unpleasant grinding sound against the concrete. The ferry passengers were disembarking. Chicken didn’t even bother looking for Lilli, or the possibility of a letter. It wasn’t the mail ferry anyway.
Chicken wondered which were Violet’s guests. Ah yes, there they were—two couples about the same age as Violet and Nori, making their way to the van with Island House emblazoned on the side. Nori had the back doors open ready to put their luggage in.
Chicken felt like calling out: ‘Hey, Dad, how’s it going?’ Even though she was on the other side of the harbour her voice would carry. Nori wouldn’t mind but Chicken imagined the look on Violet’s face if the guests knew that their hostess’s daughter was sitting in a pile of rubbish.
She watched the van make its way up the hill. Violet would be doing a last-minute check of her make-up, giving the vestibule an extra squirt of room freshener.
The one or two passengers going back to Boat Harbour were now embarking. Chicken could get on the ferry, disappear somewhere. Forget the festival, forget her family. Forget she was a sea woman. Leaving was easy. You just pack your bags in the middle of the night and go.