Should I pound on the door and beg the guys to let me in? Or crawl into the annexe and stay there? I bend down and pick up the money. I’m not crying too much to count it … a hundred bucks! Now what?
It isn’t cold so I figure I can find a safe place to sleep and then work out what to do in the morning. I walk a little way till I find a deserted van with an annexe, crawl in, and sleep on the groundsheet with my bag for a pillow. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep at all but I flake out and wake feeling hot and sticky. When I crawl out the sun’s up high in the sky and it’s a lovely warm day. I can see the guys’ van further down the row. No car. Gone surfing. I don’t need them. I know where I’m heading. Noosa and Dad.
So it’s four days later. I got a bus to Noosa, found a youth hostel and a bed, and now I’m sitting in the sunshine at an outdoor table at McDonald’s having a burger and French fries for a late breakfast (so much for wall-to-wall mangoes and pineapples) wondering what to do next. Because there’s no Walter Studley or W. Studley in the phone book.
I’ve got enough cash for one more night in the hostel if I want to keep eating. Then I don’t know what I’m going to do.
The worst bit is not having any friends. A few guys have tried to crack onto me, but after the last experience I’m scared. The girls I’ve met are either with a guy and don’t trust me, the butch hiker-nerd type, or here from another country and can’t speak English. The hostel’s clean enough but it’s not for permanent accommodation so it’s kind of lean. I’m missing my room and Mum and Sam something chronic. But I’m not missing that Steve dude. And I’m not contemplating going home till I find Dad.
‘You want the rest of those chips?’
It’s this girl, dark skinned with amazing green eyes, wild, tangled honey brown hair, thin arms hanging out of a torn white t-shirt and skinny legs in tight black jeans with high-top sneakers that look several sizes too big on her feet.
‘Yeah,’ I go as her hand snakes out towards them.
She shrugs and looks round. A guy further over finishes and as soon as he leaves she dives on his meal. He’s left half a muffin and a hash brown which she crams into her mouth. I’ve never seen anyone eat someone’s leftovers in my life, in public like this.
‘Here, have ’em.’
I shove the chips at her. She needs them more than I do.
‘Ta.’
She eats like mad, her eyes checking me out as she crunches up the fries with her white teeth.
‘That’s better.’
What the hell.
‘Here. I’ll shout you a Coke.’
‘Do you mind if I have a thick shake instead? It fills you up more.’
I order two caramel and we sit and slurp them together.
‘That feels better,’ she says as she pushes the empty container away.
She sweeps her untidy hair off her forehead and out of her eyes and grins at me.
‘I’m Alicia.’
‘Hi. I’m Leanne.’
‘So, Leanne. What are you doin hangin round McDonald’s in Noosa? I haven’t seen you here before.’
‘I’m not hangin round as you put it, I’m eatin my breakfast.’
‘Oh. Well excuse me!’
She grins again then pokes out her tongue. I can’t help liking her. There’s something about her cheeky smile and her green eyes.
‘I’m lookin for my Dad,’ I volunteer.
‘Yeah? I been tryna lose mine.’
We stare at each other. She reaches over and takes my hand.
‘Why are you tryna find him?’
‘Why are you tryna lose him?’
‘You first.’
‘Well, he left us five years ago, nearly six, and came up here with his secretary. I thought I’d check him out in the phone book but there’s no W. Studley. He must have an unlisted number.’
Alicia shrugs.
‘I’ll ask around.’
‘Thanks. And you? Why are you tryna lose your dad?’
‘See these green eyes? They’re his. See this skin? This nose? These legs and arms? They’re Mum’s.’
I still don’t get it. I must look puzzled because she throws back her head and laughs.
‘Me mum’s Aboriginal. I’m Aboriginal. I don’t need no good-for-nothin white father.’
I’m not sure what to say. It’ll probably be wrong so I don’t say anything.
‘Where ya from?’ she says.
‘Geelong, Victoria.’
‘Koori territory.’
‘Well … yeah. Where’re you from?’
‘My tribe’s up Darwin way, and that’s where I’m headin.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘So, where you stayin then?’
‘Youth hostel, but I’ve only got enough cash for one more night.’
‘Save the money; we can use it for food while we’re lookin for your dad,’ says Alicia calmly. ‘Come on. Let’s get your gear and hit the street.’
‘Why?’
The word pops out before I think. She studies me for a moment and throws her head back and laughs.
‘On the streets is where we get info about your dad,’ she grins. ‘Whether he’s dead or alive.’
Dead? I haven’t even considered that.
‘How old are ya?’ I ask as we collect my stuff from the hostel.
‘Fifteen.’
‘Me too.’
‘Ya smoke?’ she goes as we’re striding along.
‘As in tobacco or dope?’
‘Ganja, man.’
‘Well … I … er …’
‘I don’t touch it, man. Once. Bad news. All the hairs on me arms and legs stood straight up, and I couldn’t stop gigglin, I looked like a porcupine.’
She swings along and we pass a hotel.
‘Ya drink?’
‘Well … er … I …’
‘Don’t touch it. Waste of time. I tried it. I got so drunk, started smashing things up, nearly killed someone. Bad news. Now I just drink raspberry. Ya do drugs at all?’
‘No.’
‘Tried speed once. Me teeth wouldn’t stop chatterin, an I came out in goosebumps all over, an’ me heart was goin a million miles an hour. Forget the goey, man. Bad news. Never again.’
We go down a back street.
‘We’ll dump ya bag in here.’
‘But …’
‘It’ll be okay, man.’
We go into this building. Aboriginal people are busy at a counter, sitting drinking coffee or reading papers. She waves at a couple of them, shoves my bag behind the counter and we wheel out back onto the street.
‘I’d never shoot up again either,’ Alicia says. ‘Did it once for a dare. With water. Geez it hurt. Agony. Bad news. And when me uncle found out he kicked me up the bum an said if I ever messed with needles again he’d wring me neck!’
She turns and faces me and the green eyes are dancing.
‘See? Done everythin so’s I may as well go north an find me roots, so to speak.’
I can’t think of anything to say.
‘Hey. Seen the beach?’
‘Yeah. Of course.’
‘Show ya me favourite place. Come on.’
She grabs my arm and hustles me across the road to the Esplanade and we cross the sand. We walk along till we get to a group of palm trees.
‘Here. Me patch.’
‘Yeah. Nice.’
‘Come on, let’s hit the waves, man.’
We go to the edge of the water. She snatches off her shoes and dances barefoot in the ripples.
‘Don’t just stand there; this is fun.’
I throw off my sneakers and socks, roll up my jeans and walk in. The water’s warm and gentle round my toes. We prance about on the edge till Alicia scoops up wet sand and tosses it at me. I duck. Seaweed follows, a great long strand all slimy and wet. Ugh. I shriek and race up the beach.
‘Chicken.’
She flops beside me, grinning.
‘You’re too serious, Leanne.’
‘No one in my entire life has ever said I’m too serious.’
‘Yeah?’
She rolls over onto her tummy and scoops up the dry sand letting it run through her fingers.
‘Queensland’s different to down south, you know. We take our time. And up the Territory, where my people are …’
She rolls onto her back and basks like a lazy seal in the sun.
‘See, as I figure it, you whites are all jammed up with wantin to own things and change things. Look at you. Worried about where I was gonna put your bag. Worried about where you’ll sleep tonight?’
She looks sideways at me.
‘Well … er …’
‘This is a good bed right here. If it gets cold ya burrow into the sand.’
She lets some of it dribble through her fingers and we both idly watch it funnel into a small pile.
‘See this sand? It was shells and rocks and bits and pieces of earth. It’s millions and millions of years old. Makes ya wonder why humans bust emselves earnin scraps of paper and plastic so’s they can buy stuff.’
I say, ‘Without money you can’t get food. Somewhere to live. Clothes.’
This is getting deep.
‘I can live without any money for months,’ says Alicia.
‘Yeah, but I saw you eat that man’s leftovers.’
‘Hey. I didn’t say live in luxury. I said live. Ya know, eat, breathe, sleep, walk?’
‘What about showers?’
She points to the sea.
‘Ever been skinny dippin in the moonlight? Then there’s the shower block over there.’
‘Soap? Shampoo?’
‘Someone always leaves their soap or shampoo behind. If they don’t it doesn’t matter. Water’s free.’
‘But what about … safety?’
‘You mean someone jumpin on me bones? Or stickin a knife in me ribs? Get real. They can do that if I’m locked in a mansion behind high walls, guard dogs, and security alarms. I don’t hang round where the danger is, do I?’
‘The shower block?’
‘Suss it out, make sure no weirdos are lurkin about.’
‘But …’
‘You whites are the weirdos anyway,’ she grins, but she looks angry. ‘See, in my culture everything belongs to everyone else but then it doesn’t really belong, if you know what I mean. You can’t own the land or the sea or the sky.’
‘Yes you can. My mum’s paying off the house and we’ll own it in fifteen more years.’
‘Ya don’t get it, do ya? All ya mum’s doin is earnin the right to live there. Sure, she got the right to pick up the buildin and move it, but she can’t dig up the land in a nice square chunk, can she, and cart it off.’
I think about this. I’ve never really thought about these things before.
‘Yeah, but what about your mob and Mabo land rights?’
‘So?’
‘Well, you’re wanting to own things. Land.’
‘We know we can’t really own it. Land rights. We want the right to look after it without some great mining company movin in an diggin it all up.’
‘Yeah, but that’s progress.’
‘Progress sucks.’
‘McDonald’s is progress,’ I go. ‘I didn’t see you guzzling witchetty grubs and yams for breakfast.’
She looks at me and grins.
‘Would’ve if they were on the menu, but.’
She jumps to her feet.
‘Come on. You wanna find that dad of yours, don’t ya? I can’t hang around this hole forever. I’m headin north, remember?’
We stroll back across the road and up the main drag. We turn off down a side street and walk for quite a way, not saying anything. She stops suddenly at this low-slung modern building and we go in. A coffee-skinned guy with greying hair is busy at the counter.
‘Hey, Clive, man. I need a favour.’
‘How much?’
He reaches into his pocket.
‘Nah. I’m cashed up.’
She flips a hand at me.
‘A name. An address.’
He looks wary.
‘Lighten up, Clive, we ain’t gonna hit the dude for worldly goods or trash his place or anythin. She’s lookin for her old man eh.’
‘Try the cops,’ he says.
‘Clive!’
‘Okay, okay. Who?’
‘Walter Studley,’ I go.
He goes off to a computer.
‘Electoral roll,’ whispers Alicia. ‘We’re s’posed to pay for the search, that’s why he’s nervous, plus they’ve got to be careful when they give out addresses. There’s a whole pile of fathers from down south on the run from maintenance payments, ya know.’
I can imagine, but so far Noosa’s been full of old men and old ladies and a bunch of fake surfers. It’s neat and orderly.
He comes back.
‘No W. Studley. Or any other Studley.’
‘Maybe he’s usin another name?’ goes Alicia, looking at me.
‘Nah. Don’t think so.’
‘He’ll be renting a place then,’ says this Clive guy. ‘We only have the names of rate payers, people who own property here.’
‘Ta anyway.’
We cruise back onto the street. Noosa’s mainly apartment buildings and big on retired people and tourists. Now where?
‘The bank,’ says Alicia, and we walk up the steps. She susses out the place then moves toward one of the tellers, a girl with blonde hair and really dark eyes.
‘Hi, Ruth.’
‘Hi, Alicia. Don’t tell me you’re about to open an account?’
‘Sure. A million be okay? Nah, I want info. Her father.’
‘Get real, Alicia. We can’t give out private information about our clients.’
‘We don’t want to know how much is in his account.’
‘You’re telling me you don’t want to hit on him?’
Alicia turns to me.
‘You wanna hit on him?’
‘No. I just want to see him after five years of not seeing him,’ I say.
‘Just an address? Go on, Ruth. We won’t say where we got it.’
‘Well … it’s against the rules …’
‘Since when did you follow rules?’
‘Yeah … well … okay, I’ll look. What’s the name?’
‘Walter James Studley,’ I go.
She trots off to a computer and fiddles for a while. Then she writes something on a scrap of paper, comes back, and hands it over the counter.
‘And if you say I gave it to you I’ll deny it,’ she says.
‘That’s cool. Thanks, Ruth.’
‘Say hello to my folks when you get up north.’
‘Sure. See ya.’
We walk out. My legs are all wobbly, and my heart’s pounding like a Hunters and Collectors CD.
‘Here.’
She hands me the paper.
‘Sixteen, number one hundred and twelve Seaport Street.’
‘Let’s go.’
‘Ya know where it is?’
‘Course not. I don’t hang out in apartment buildin’s. But I know where we can find out.’
We go to the tourist centre and study the map of Noosa on the wall.
‘There. A ten-minute walk.’
We start walking. My heart’s still hammering away like its trying to get out of my chest.
‘This is it.’
We stand looking up at this big brick building.
‘What was it?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Okay, then. Upstairs.’
We go up till we reach the second floor and walk along the passageway till we reach sixteen. A plain wooden door.
‘Well, don’t just stand there. Knock.’
‘I can’t.’
Suddenly I’m scared stiff. What if he doesn’t know me? What if he does know me and tells me to get lost? What if …
Alicia bangs loudly on the door, making me jump. I’m frozen to the spot, just staring at the wooden panel like it’s the most fascinating thing on the planet. Nothing happens so she bangs again. And again.
‘No one home. Probably at work,’ says Alicia. ‘Come on. We’ll hit the beach, stuff about for a while and come back tonight.’
I feel flat. All this tension then he’s not home. How can he do this to me? I feel like a bowl of mush.
‘Hey. Cheer up. You’ve found where he lives. He’s not going anywhere. Stop stressing and enjoy,’ says Alicia. ‘You’re cashed up. Let’s eat.’
‘McDonald’s?’
‘Nah. Let’s cruise into the Noosa Hilton and have lunch,’ she winks.
‘Ya gotta be jokin.’
‘Why not? Our money’s as good as anyone else’s, isn’t it?’
‘But … our clothes …’
‘Hey. The poverty look’s in. Millionaires are spending big bucks to look like us. Come on, don’t be a wimpette. Live for once.’
We find this posh hotel with a doorman and all. I’m too overcome to read the name, but there’s soft carpet and my sneakers sink up to my ankles. There’s marble and gold and chandeliers to go!
‘We would like to eat lunch,’ says Alicia to some dude behind a desk labelled ‘Concierge’.
‘The Brasserie? Or the Oceana Room?’
‘The first sounds good,’ says Alicia.
We stroll into this posh room, all wicker chairs, pale pink tablecloths, white roses on the table, silverware like you wouldn’t believe.
‘This is our kinda place,’ says Alicia. ‘Can you read me the menu, Leanne?’
I stare at her.
‘I can only read basic stuff. Not posh menus.’
I twig. She’s probably cut a lot of school. Well, not a problem. I can read almost anything. So I read out all the choices.
‘Drinks, ladies?’
This waiter sounds up himself but Alicia is cool.
‘Two glasses of raspberry,’ says Alicia. ‘Per … lease.’
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything.
Alicia narrows her eyes.
‘Nah. Changed me mind. Make that two champagnes.’
‘I’ll have to see an ID, ma’am.’
‘Sure.’
She rummages in her pocket then flings down an ID. As he’s peering at it she slips me a small plastic square under the table. I look at it. I’ve got mousey hair, a big nose, and my name’s Petunia Green. He gives Alicia’s back (it had to be a good fake!) and holds out his hand. He reads mine.
‘Petunia?’
‘Mum was into flowers.’
‘Doesn’t look like you.’
I toss my head.
‘Dyed me hair, got a nose job.’
‘Waiter?’ calls a posh voice.
He shrugs, gives up, and trolls off to serve Ms Posh and get the drinks.
‘Here.’
I hand back Petunia Green. ‘Who is she?’
‘Who was she, ya mean. Dead.’
‘Thanks!’
I’ve got the ID of a dead person. I don’t want to know!
‘Thought you said you don’t drink alcohol,’ I say.
‘I don’t. I’m talkin cheap booze. Beer. But champagne? I’ve never had champagne. One glass isn’t gonna count, is it?’
‘I hope you don’t go all violent in here.’
‘Nah. It’s all in the feelings, ya know. And right now I’m feelin fantastic. Anyway, champagne isn’t alcohol, it’s glamour and money, right? Now, what are we gonna eat? Read the first bit again, the pasta stuff.’
We decide on marinara for her, carbonara for me. A barramundi steak for her, a chicken breast with mango sauce for me for our main courses. Another waiter, this one with a totally posh voice, takes our order. He brings some hot rolls and butter, carefully avoiding Alicia’s side of the table. But it doesn’t worry her or she hasn’t noticed. She eats delicately, breaking her bread roll, putting her butter on her side plate. Such good manners.
‘Me foster folks taught me,’ she says, catching my glance of astonishment.
She knows more than I do although Mum’s taught me basic table manners so I can use them if I ever have to, which is now.
The food comes and it’s delicious. We sip our champagne and eat our pasta. The waiter clears the table.
‘Haven’t nicked ya silver,’ goes Alicia as he peers at our plates like they’re contaminated. He stalks off and brings back our main courses almost straight away.
‘Top service,’ I say to Alicia loudly, conning on that he wants us to hurry up and leave. He sniffs and walks away. We take our time.
By now the restaurant’s filling up and I’m amazed to see that Alicia’s right. The other diners are dressed down, jeans, tops (not as torn as Alicia’s) and I remember that grunge is in. We cop a few looks but no one seems interested in two teenage girls eating food in the Noosa Hilton. I guess if you don’t do anything gross you can stay!
‘Dessert?’
The waiter gives us the menus. I read the selections.
‘No choice. Death by chocolate,’ says Alicia.
We have one each. And espresso coffee. I feel like I’m about to burst. The drinks waiter and the food waiter are hanging round, probably waiting to see if we’re cashed up, or whether we need to start washing dishes. Not a problem. I fork over $65 dollars to the cashier, my last notes on this earth plus a five dollar tip. (Might encourage them to be nicer to kids!) I’m broke, but who’s caring? Dad’ll stake me for sure. We walk out of the Bra thingy and I’m feeling like a millionaire. A full millionaire.
‘Okay,’ says Alicia, ‘that’s it. I’m dead. Let’s hit the beach and snooze till it’s time to see your dad.’
I lie on the warm sand staring at a bunch of soft streaky clouds drifting across the sky and feel really free for the first time in ages. I’m not really sure what’s going to happen next and I don’t really care.