Full Moon

A woman is lying in the sun, she is wearing a red bikini and half-dozing from the pleasure of the warmth of the sand. She has been for a swim and even attempted, unsuccessfully, to body-surf. The water at Noosa is warm and she stayed in for quite a while.

Earlier, when she had half-woken, she had been frightened by what she saw. She was still in a dream, it was the dream that had haunted her when she was younger—much younger—at university, the frightening images of bodies bobbing in the cold, gentle ocean; some were soldiers with their gear strapped to their backs, bobbing like corks alongside the vulnerable civilian bodies, all equally hopeless. It was a nuclear war, and it was the first time she had absorbed the possible impact of this technology. These were images from a film, searing images which have never left Heather. The night she saw the film—she has never seen it again—she had not been able to sleep. Her boyfriend tried to comfort her, had suggested they get up and make a warm drink. He believed she had been consoled and they had gone back to bed. In fact he had not been able to console her, she managed that only when she promised herself she would never bring children into this world. The horror of the film had penetrated her psyche; this concept of annihilation was as pure and as new to her as were the ideas of Plato and Aristotle in her Philosophy class. That was when she established the conditions she would abide by. It was as clear as her knowledge that men and women formed unions— alliances that sometimes lasted a lifetime. She hoped more than anything that she would have such a union, but she would never have children.

In her fully wakened state—the sea close to azure, not the contemptuous grey of the war––she was gradually cheered. It was thirty years since she had first had that dream. She now knew how to cross the boundaries from the desolate to the possible, and (she would laugh!) to the optimistic. It was a technique she had learnt; it had taken many years, and involved events that could have taken her spirit.

In a few days Avril would arrive. She was looking forward to her friend’s visit. They had met twenty-eight years ago in France, when they were both nurses, and had remained fast friends. Avril had spent most of that time living overseas, yet their infrequent contact hadn’t lessened their friendship. Avril had three children, Heather had never had any. As she ran her toes through the warm sand she considered the millions—hundreds of millions—of babies born since she had met Avril, since she’d felt the world had only a desolate future: something she no longer believed.

And then she thought of the boy she’d met on the walk last night. She cautioned herself: he’s not a boy, don’t call him that, he must be thirty, maybe even thirty-five. But she did say out loud, “He is young,” and then chided herself, “not that young. You were married and separated by thirty.” It was in her marriage that she had learnt what it meant to be truly unhappy, but that was another story.

She had been in the National Park at dusk, and was just finishing an afternoon walk and thinking of the gin-and-tonic she would have on her return to the apartment. A ranger standing beside the information leaflets asked if she needed any help. Heather often read these guides only after having a good look around—though she had found that she never retained much of what she read anyway. Eucalyptus … acacia … What attracted her was the smell of the trees and plants, the shape of the leaves and density of the growth: the bark, and the bits that fell to the ground. For some reason she had quite a good knowledge of ferns, and a little of orchids, but that was it. Birds no, except for the obvious ones. She loved just wandering around the park, hearing the bark crunch underfoot, and looking up—almost falling over, to take in the forest canopy.

The ranger turned towards her.

“Is the park closing soon?” she asked.

She was slim of build and he had noticed her round ample backside. Her hair was brown and curly and there were tendrils at the edges of her temples. Her hazel eyes seemed to smile and challenge you at the same time. Her skin was clear but there were deep lines on her neck.

“In about an hour.”

“Do you know when it will be full moon?” She wasn’t sure why she asked him this, yet she had the impression he wanted to be asked another question. “On the thirty-first.” He looked at his watch. “In six days.”

Heather had been thinking about the full moon when he’d approached. She subscribed to the notion that things were more exciting and dangerous on a full moon. The ranger deftly set leaflets in the display board.

“This month it’s a blue moon,” he told her, continuing to place the leaflets. She wasn’t sure what he meant.

Heather had been on holiday for ten days. Her mother had come up from Sydney to stay and said she’d enjoyed her visit, but Heather didn’t think so: she didn’t like the beach, wasn’t keen on national parks, was not very interested in shopping, and preferred to eat in. Heather knew that her mother approved more of Heather’s sister Louise, who had two daughters and was quieter. Heather’s old friend Jenny had also come up to stay for a few days. Mrs Ralston had always liked her, even though Jenny had done many of the things Heather had done—changing husbands being the most serious—but she at least had some children. Heather’s mother held that women were put on this earth to have children; anything short of that was a personal tragedy, or a wilful test of divine intention.

Heather worked as a publicist. Over the years she had tried a variety of jobs since her first as a nurse.

On Hastings Street there was a wine bar, and its presence deflected her intention of having a gin-and-tonic at the apartment. There seemed to be no one else in the bar save the staff. She was thinking about children, other people’s children—Jenny’s children and Avril’s children—and she wondered how it would be if she had had a family of her own. Sometimes she tried to imagine what sort of children she might have had, and she also thought how she had never been pregnant. After her first marriage she had decided she shouldn’t be so rigid, and despite some people believing the world was now assuredly worse—the Vietnam war, the genocide in Cambodia, the interference of the US in South America—was there really a need to be so uncompromising? She could see the improvements; in some countries they were substantial, as indeed they were in China, in India, despite the appalling failures in Africa. But she now knew that her decision not to have a family had little to do with what was happening anywhere else. It was to do with what was happening with STORY 106 QUADRANT JULY-AUGUST 2008 her. Georges, her second husband, loved her because she could distinguish these differences. She had decided a long time ago that if she changed her mind it would be her business. What had fascinated her for years was how people living in terrible circumstances—impoverished communities in India, war-torn Afghanistan, the Sudan, tragic Russia—how these people kept having children, how they invariably said they wanted things to be better for their children. That was a human response, a human ambition.

Georges had been interested in having a child but hadn’t pressed the issue. He said he loved her, and was more than happy with that. They both agreed that the desire to start a family should be stronger than theirs was. They also thought there were enough people in the world.

One of the reasons Heather loved Avril was that she didn’t believe things were getting worse. Heather had many friends who did, who soon after meeting would refer to at least a couple of examples: the rape yesterday in the park, the alarming article on obesity, the unacknowledged disaster in Iraq. Avril didn’t list the collected daily horrors. She referred to them in other ways. She didn’t think you could conduct your life properly if you held such burdens. Others seemed to hold them as evidence of a wicked and worsening world. They usually had children, Heather noted.

Avril was arriving in two days and Heather was very much looking forward to it. She hadn’t seen her for five years. Avril had been living in Canada for almost twenty years. She was five years younger than Heather and married to a policeman, now a Commissioner. Dennis was still as devoted to Avril as when he had first met her— his devotion was comprehensive and unwavering: he knew what he had and he cherished it. Heather loved Avril for other reasons. She seemed soft but was made of steel, she was gentle but with an incisive sense of humour, she had a calm yet extremely alert face. Her skin and hair were dark—she might have been an American Indian—and she had grey eyes.

Once Heather’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness she ordered a glass of wine. She noticed that the fellow she had talked to in the park was sitting across the room. He was with two other men and they were drinking beer. She became mindful of sad and challenging times when she felt desperate sitting alone in a bar, or sitting anywhere— when she was desolate and sure her life had caved in and could not be regained. Those times she mostly spent at home or at work. If you harboured doubts about your attractiveness, you should never sit alone in a bar. You were mostly not noticed, as indeed was the case when you were feeling fine, but then it didn’t matter. If you were on the trawl, you sent out different signals; and were on alert about what you might find thrashing about in your net.

The tables were arranged unevenly and the wooden furniture was cool to the touch. This holiday had been very pleasant, she told herself. It was not what she had anticipated. But how different could she have expected things to be? She hadn’t been on a beach holiday in years. Usually on her holidays she would travel to places where she could learn something and see amazing things, like Paris, or Syria—her last holiday had been in St Petersburg—or she would stay at home, read books, see friends. But this time in Noosa she had felt fully in the centre of things, as she had when she was younger. She had believed it couldn’t be like that any more, that you’d sort of fade away. But the sun, and the sound of the sea—nothing had changed, and the light in the morning, it was fresh, new; the day was your lure.

Heather ordered a glass of tonic water after the wine: she had decided to remain a little longer. She noticed that the two men sitting with the ranger had left. She was thinking of when she had first met Avril in the hospital in France, and how old her friend’s daughters must be, when she became aware of the ranger standing beside her.

“Would you like some company?” he asked. He saw again that she was a finelooking woman; tall but not skinny, and he remembered her straight shoulders, the wavy brown hair, now pinned back in a large clamp. He remembered this from the park. She seemed to smile from her eyes, keeping her mouth for irony.

“Not really,” she told him. “Would you?”

He looked embarrassed. “I suppose I’m … well …” His face was suddenly flushed. “I’m sorry,” and he made to leave.

“Was it a bet?” Heather asked, curious.

He shook his head. “No, it wasn’t. It was all my own idea.” It was then that he smiled, with a self-deprecating glint in his eye. “I don’t get too many good ideas … So, would you like a drink?”

She said she was fine, and wished she didn’t appear so singular; but she invited him to join her. He came back with a beer and sat down.

He told her many things: he talked about the tides, and the fishing done off the coast, and the visitors to the park who were knowledgeable and travelled extensively around the country, including some from overseas. It wasn’t long before Heather knew she liked his company. It reminded her of the qualities photographs have, the illumination, the sense of serendipity, and life-shading, sometimes disquiet. He was alert and insightful; he liked being cast outside familiar territory. He had a lot of energy.

“You seem lucky and don’t know about it, living in this country,” he told her. “How do you know we don’t know? How does one show that one values something?” He smiled and they fell silent. “It is a very young country,” Heather added at last.

“Well, that depends,” he answered. “The rocks are very old, if that counts, and you may still have some of the oldest inhabitants ever. There is extraordinary beauty here.”

For the first time Heather detected a slight accent. She wondered about him. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“Ivan, and you?”

“Heather.” They shook hands. “What have you seen?”

“The Kimberleys, the red centre, the south of Western Australia, the D’Entrecasteaux coast.”

“Are you a painter?”

He shook his head, a gesture that suggested she was close, but he didn’t say any more.

Ivan’s face was broad, with a canny, alert look—most would not have called him handsome. His hair was dark-brown and curly, it hung across his eyes, and he would sweep it back as though he was about to leave. His neck was thick, he might be a rugby player, but his body was slender. There was a dewy quality about his skin.

“You weren’t born here, were you?” Heather asked.

“No.”

“Where then?”

“In Warsaw—well, just out of Warsaw.” She was aware again of the faint accent, though with some words very Australian.

“Is your family here with you?”

“My wife was here, but she missed Poland too much so she went back. My father is in Poland. My mother died when I was a boy.”

“Were you unhappy when your wife went back?”

“I was a little sad—though I thought I’d be sadder. Still, I was hoping she would come back, but she telephoned me last Christmas and asked would I come back to Poland. I said I would to visit, but I don’t want to live there. She said then don’t visit. She was very clear. Before Easter I heard she wanted to get a divorce, she has found someone to marry.”

“Why didn’t you want to go back to Poland?”

“If I really loved this woman—her name is Magda—then I would have gone. I have a lot of pride—too much pride, it seems—so I had made the wrong decision with this woman, and I would still be married to her. But as well, I prefer it in Australia, it is newer, there’s a lot of sunshine, you don’t let politics matter as much as we do in Europe. I’ve been here eight years and still I don’t want to go back.” “Have you found a companion here?”

“Was that why you asked about the moon?” He looked clearly into her eyes and she felt shy, knowing that to say yes would be revealing parts of herself. This all seemed tricky, for by her calculations he was at least twenty years younger; yet to say no could insult him, and it wasn’t truthful. There was something about him she found very attractive.

“Have you just arrived on your holiday?” he asked.

“No. I’ll be here six more days. But now I don’t want to leave.”

“You don’t like your job?”

“I do like it, but just at the moment I like it more here.” She felt surprise saying this: only this morning she had thought she would be ready to leave straight after Avril’s visit.

Heather and Ivan talked for an hour. It was quiet, and strangely intense, as if they wanted to cover certain topics, and a challenge because those topics could not be too revealing. That was the propitious understanding.

He told her about the changes in Poland before he had left for Australia. Already those political and social changes had been dramatic, and he believed this was even more the case now. But he had been born in the mid-seventies so he had strong memories of the Communists. He remembered Walesa, he had visited the university and Ivan admired him. But he had felt restless, and he could not believe that the changes could last. He told her he didn’t miss a great deal about Poland—although he did miss his father, now that he was getting old.

Heather knew from this that something had happened in Ivan’s heart. Perhaps he couldn’t be with his father … and then there was the estrangement from his wife. And it was clear that he had come to love Australia.

“Have you been involved with anyone since then?”

“You mean women?”

“I suppose I do …”

It may have been at that moment that Heather fell for him. There was something about the way he spoke, his charm, a seriousness blending with confusion. “There have been a few women,” he said, looking directly at her. “Some lovely women, but nothing has … stuck.”

They were quiet for a time, absorbing this.

“Have you been married?” He had noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring.

“How would you like to me answer?”

“Are there many different ways?”

“There can be …” She could see he was interested in the answer. “When I was very young I married someone who was very much like my father, except in one important way: he was mean. It was a terrible marriage and we were divorced after a few years. A bit later I married a wonderful man, and thought it was forever. We were together for fifteen years—and then he died of cancer. I was very sad after that and didn’t think I wanted to have another relationship, but about five years later I was seduced into thinking I did. We didn’t marry, and it lasted four years. I don’t know why I stayed so long, I thought it would get better—and to be truthful, I didn’t think anyone else would have me …” Ivan absorbed this comment wryly, and was obviously keen to hear more. “And then one morning I woke up—he’d done something which I loathed—and I asked him to leave by the end of the day. That was nearly three years ago. Currently I don’t think I care for relationships.”

He heard her say this, but he wasn’t sure she meant it. He did want to comment on how good she looked but decided to keep quiet about women and age. He was entranced with her courage, her capacity to go on, particularly when you have to start again. She seemed younger: it was the energy and a certain calmness she had— certainly not resignation. She said she worked as a publicist, there had been years when she hadn’t been officially employed. Her second husband, Georges, was an art dealer and she had helped him. Ivan didn’t ask about any children, he could find that out later.

He looked at his watch and realised he should go. He stood up. “Will you be coming back to the park?”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

He handed her his card and told her that he would like it if she wanted to call him. “Anytime.”

Two days later Heather lay on her towel on the beach. Her mind had drifted to that place it is hard to describe, a kind of half-zone—there was sky, sometimes the sea could be heard, a crimson-orange coloured the back of her eyes and her thoughts were mixed, part lolling, like sleep, a vague collection of thoughts, the food she would cook when Avril arrived, the conversations they would have, their talk about the past; thoughts about how things were, how she needed to prepare the apartment.

She looked up as though she had heard a noise but could barely make anything out—there was too much light. She wondered about Ivan. She had thought of him often, and how exciting she found him—she wondered if she was making it up, and whether if she saw him again she wouldn’t like him as much. She knew what this meant: that she really did like him, despite his youth.

There were a lot of people of the beach, but suddenly she was aware of a figure standing no more than a metre from her towel. He wore dark speedos and stood there as though he knew her. It was a glorious day and everything had come into focus. It was Ivan, with fine clear skin and broad shoulders. He seemed more or less hairless save for the fine down coating his legs.

Heather was wearing a salmon-coloured one-piece suit. Her shapely figure lay quietly absorbing the sun. She had moved onto one elbow and looked up at him.

Ivan smiled, stayed where he was and asked her if she was interested in coming for a walk later in the afternoon. Heather said that she would like to, but someone was coming to stay and she had to go to the airport. Ivan moved his body only slightly, a hip seemed to be pushed down by his shoulder, a sadness and resignation in this gesture. The rest of the beach had been erased from his consciousness, and he was acutely aware of her skin, particularly her thighs, her fingers and her brown hair; nevertheless, he was about to take his leave.

“Would you like to have a cold drink?” Heather asked.

He half-smiled, nodded that he would. By now she had stood up and was putting a sarong around her waist, and a hat and glasses, easing the sand out of her towel. “The apartment isn’t far from here.”

Ivan was tall, something she hadn’t noticed in the hotel. Yet he felt familiar to her. It is one of the most surprising and pleasing feelings we can have, that sense of being known by someone we have just met—it is not common, yet it seems so simple. It is also very alluring.

He said he would like a glass of water. Heather poured an orange juice for herself.

How is it possible to be standing in your own place with a man dressed only in his togs, she reflected! She conjured an amusing image of Edwardian England: the women in a separate room from the men, wearing long dresses, doing needlepoint, their breasts rounded, pressed up—mores and values change in remarkable ways.

Ivan put down his glass, came and stood in front of her. He kissed her neck, taking in the womanly scent and the tang of salt. He put his hands on the lower part of her back, and she turned her head and they kissed, quietly, carefully, with their eyes closed. Heather liked this very much and twined her arms around him, aware of his arousal, moving closer but not too hard against him. The tension was delightful as she kissed his shoulder, his chest, and at the same time caressed his thigh. It was too difficult to keep standing, the haze, the demand was becoming stronger.

“Can we go in the bedroom?” she asked.

It was extremely bright there, with the white shutters all open. Once the light was subdued they lay looking at each other, Heather moving her hand across his chest. Ivan kissed the curve above her hip, and gently pushed her down so he could kiss below her stomach, looking up to tell her she tasted of salt. They made love, and lay naked on the bed. Ivan’s eyes were closed, and after a time Heather began to stroke his thigh; she saw his smile.

“What?” she said.

“Did you intend to do this?”

“It hadn’t been my direct thought!”

They made love again, more intensely this time, although he used as much restraint in his timing as he could manage. He curled his arm around her, and they slept.

Later in the day Heather drove to Maroochydore to meet Avril. The plane was forty minutes late, but Avril had come all the way from Vancouver so what did it matter? Heather did think about the afternoon, the surprise, and the pleasure. She wished she had someone to tell it to.

When Avril walked through into the Heather noticed that she looked more like the older sister she didn’t have: she was heavier and her skin was pale. She had a lot of luggage; two trolleys were needed for all her stuff, and even then she had to carry the duty-free bags. Avril took off her woollen coat and draped it across one of the trolleys. She was busy and fussing.

“It was snowing when Dennis drove me to the airport,” she told Heather as they stepped outside the . “Look at the sky! It’s the colour of revelation: the deep colour inside seashells.”

The women stood with their arms around one another, and they kissed sweetly and quickly on the mouth, as they had done since they’d first met. Heather continued to hold.

“It’s wonderful being here—seeing you.” Avril didn’t want to say that it was essentially on Dennis’s urging that she had come: she knew Heather liked women to make up their own minds. It had been five years, though they did keep regular contact—letters, sometimes the phone, and now e-mail. They had last met in New York and spent several days there. It was winter, there was even some snow, and it had reminded them of their time in France when they had met. They went to galleries and dined out, caught up with friends from years earlier, and it felt just like when they had travelled together.

Driving Avril back to the apartment made Heather feel very close to her. They had shared so much over the years, and here she was again, and she had her all to herself. There seemed so much to talk about, so many topics to cover that she was afraid there would not be enough time.

“Do you think Dennis will ever come to Australia?”

“He’s often said he wants to, but like most North Americans I think he will only talk about it.”

Heather drove down to the sea. She turned off the engine and they wound the windows down, the sound of the sea a shooshing rhythm surrounding them. Heather was keenly aware of the reassurance she felt in Avril’s company, the reassurance of a worn-in relationship. It wasn’t unlike a good marriage, and since she had lost Georges she recognised that quality when she was in its company.

She had met Avril at a friend’s house one weekend in France. Heather was nursing in Rouen and was about to leave on a two-month holiday. The two young women travelled in Italy, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Germany and Greece. They slept in the same room usually, sometimes in the same bed. If occasionally one of them wearied of the other’s company, she might find a new companion to travel or move about with for a while. They had no cross words, despite very different views on a range of things. Avril was religious and went to church; Heather was an atheist, although Avril didn’t believe anyone could be an atheist.

Heather and Avril had nursed in Melbourne, sharing a house until Heather married. Avril always had a lot of boyfriends, which never led to her setting up house; after several years they both thought it might not happen.

Heather sensed the difference Avril carried, coming from somewhere cold and enclosed: she was wearing stockings, was overdressed and sat in her seat without moving. Sometimes Heather would feel Avril’s gaze on her face as she drove and she noticed her expression of relief and weariness. It was a long trip from Canada. Later, once Avril had freshened up and taken a shower, she seem enlivened. She brought out loads of presents, placed them on the table and embraced Heather.

“I am so glad to be here—I feel like it’s the first time I’ve travelled overseas! Now what could that be all about?”

“Who knows? But I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m too experienced to be a first-timer … been to too many countries, lived too long.”

“Would you like a drink?” Heather asked.

“Could I have some tea?”

“Of course.” Heather remembered that Avril was one friend who had little interest in alcohol.

The presents were generous, including a bottle of Armani. “This always reminds me of France,” Avril said. She hadn’t changed, Heather thought. Among the gifts was a framed photo of Avril and Dennis and the girls, all now grown—twenty, eighteen and eleven years of age—so that they seemed like different people. There was both pride and tenderness in her voice as she talked about her children. It was a surprise to see Dennis so thin—he had always been a big man. That image made Heather feel very sad; it also made her think of Georges’s illness.

Avril could see her response. “He’s still thin … but we’ve still got him.” The moment she said this she regretted it: Georges had died of cancer. She got up and went to the sink. Her breathing was uneven, Dennis’s illness must still be very close to her. For what seemed like a long while Avril tried to compose herself. Heather got up to fill the kettle, then placed her arms around Avril. When they were drinking the tea, Avril said: “I’m still terrified … I’m terrified of losing him. What would I do?”

“You don’t want me to answer that, do you?” Heather asked.

Avril jerked her head up and down, like a character in a children’s book who had been weeping. “You won’t like the answer,” Heather warned. “I thought there was an answer when Georges died—I thought there had to be an answer, but there wasn’t. I mean, maybe there is, but you have to bumble along to try and find it.”

Avril seemed to wilt, then brightened up. “But you seem fine. Look at you!”

“I am fine. But I wasn’t for a long time. You saw some of that. You know how close Georges and I were—how much I loved him.”

“And how much he loved you.”

“How lucky I felt that I had finally found him … and then he was gone. I had waited for him, you know. Nothing like him had ever happened to me.” She smiled. “It’s corny but I’m going to say it. He could sort of see inside me, see the best bits— and he had his own wonderful qualities. It was often just like being with myself! You’d wonder why we bothered!” She threw her head back and laughed. She loved being with Avril; it was reassuring, and wonderful. It stopped the things you feared from being so terrifying.

Georges had become sick quite quickly, a little over ten years ago now, and his illness seemed to go on forever. It had dragged on for two years and then he could last no longer. Avril had come out to help Heather nurse him, she’d come to give her friend a break. Heather was exhausted but refused to leave him. Avril now understood this from her experience with Dennis.

She felt a new respect and regard for Heather, how she had managed to get on with her life after Georges died. “Last year Dennis suffered with throat cancer,” Avril told her, “and we nearly lost him—we didn’t really know how sick he was at the time, but in the end he got through it. It was a difficult time, for everybody.”

“When did this happen? I only know part of the story,” Heather said.

“It started about fifteen months ago—he was really sick over Christmas, right up until Easter, and then slowly he started to improve.” Avril looked at Heather, a long look. “We’re nurses, but that was a very different experience. I wasn’t ready for it.”

The following afternoon Heather and Avril went down to the beach. Avril had been for two swims, and after each swim had tidily and gently lain down on her towel again. Heather was recalling how Dennis and Avril had met in Bali, how after years of unsuitable suitors, he was the one. Avril had mixed feelings about going to live in Vancouver, but Dennis persuaded her to try it. It took several years before she felt comfortable, and even longer before she liked the cold. She still missed Australia.

“Have you found anyone else?” Avril asked. Heather had written about a fellow she was seeing called Michael—her heart skipped a beat and she thought Avril meant Ivan. But she hadn’t spoken to anyone about Ivan; more proving would be required, she mused.

“Let’s just say I doubt that Michael and I will be an item.”

“You didn’t say that when you wrote,” Avril pried.

“A year ago I thought it would work, but when we tried to work on the details … it started to be something else.”

“He was younger than you.” Something of pride at this was in Avril’s voice, and curiosity. Always there had been an unevenness in the unfolding of their life events. It hadn’t been expected by either of them, but had continued throughout their lives. Heather recalled telling Avril that she had left Paul. Avril had yet to find a steady boyfriend, and six months later she had met Dennis. When their first daughter was born Heather had gone to visit, and held the tiny sweet-smelling baby in her arms, and Avril was deeply imbued with her new charge. It was on Heather’s return trip that she had met Georges, in an airport bar in Amsterdam. Georges, magnificent Georges, the love of her life—how she wished he were still here.

“Michael was ten years younger, in years,” she replied, “but he seemed twenty years older in how he thought. There was something there for us, but he just wanted to stay over on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays—he had work he wanted to do at his place the other days. That may not have mattered so much, but he was very fussy about the details, and then I discovered he was mean with money. And all of a sudden it had become harder and harder to see the man I had been charmed by.” She paused and looked at Avril. “I then developed this theory that you can’t keep going around finding new blokes that you think will be able to fit the bill as soulmate.” She let out a laugh.

Avril asked, “Aren’t there a few job descriptions they might still fill?”

Heather smiled. “Tell me,” she said.

“Companion, lover, awfully good friend …”

Heather thought of Ivan—companion, awfully good lover—and of the way his hair fell across his forehead.

“You’re blushing. Are you thinking of other job descriptions you’re keeping to yourself?” It was impossible for Avril not to wish that Heather had had children: the connectedness they gave you, knowing they were different from you and younger and that the world would continue, somehow better because they were in it. “Wasn’t Georges interested in starting a family?” she said.

“He was. And as it turned out, it would have been me finishing it.”

The waves lapped the sand, not far away from them. They lay for a time on their towels. Avril said she wanted to go up to the apartment, she had a headache and might take a nap. She also wanted to call Dennis.

Heather could see that Avril wanted to go there on her own, and she let her. At first she thought she would read, but then she found herself thinking about going back to Melbourne, and about her job. There was work to promote rodeos in country Victoria, as well as some German chamber music and two soloists. She cherished the crossover time when the necessity and enchantment of the holiday ran back across the call of your work, and of your other life. She rolled over, placing her fists together to support her chin, and stared at the sea. When you’ve known someone a long time, she thought, like Avril and I have, it often feels as if there have been no changes, and you are appreciated, even cherished for this—this part of you that doesn’t seem changed. The friendship is a record of how things were: in France, when you were in love, when you were frightened about what you might do next—and when I lost Georges. How valuable it had been to see Avril’s terrible sadness when she arrived for the funeral—that was her comfort. Old friends, she thought, and smiled to herself. And we’ll only get older!

At dusk they went back to the beach. Heather had brought some prawns and oysters, fresh bread and white wine. Avril said she felt better, and they sat on a rug shelling the prawns. Avril talked about Ellie, her middle daughter, about how she didn’t seem to be interested in boys. She was eighteen now and Avril wondered if there might be something they should do.

“What did you have in mind?”

“That’s just it, we don’t know.”

“Don’t these things just take their course? You said she’s a good student, that she loves science and maths, she’s quiet, she has good friends.”

“There’s so much emphasis on sex, and kids are starting younger …”

“So, as a parent, wanting the best for her … Avril!” Heather burst out laughing. Avril poured Heather some more wine, and a little for herself. “I can’t say that to Dennis, but you do want the best for your children.” She smiled at the irony.

“A lot of these things aren’t in your control. That’s how it’s meant to be.”

“I think I’m thinking like this because I’m such a long way away from them.” Heather moved closer to Avril to sit against her, something they did when they were together. Neither of them spoke.

“It won’t be long until you’re home again,” Heather said after a while.

On the way back from the beach, the sky now black, Avril asked Heather if she might come to Vancouver for Christmas. Heather recalled how she’d spent only one Christmas in the snow, and that had been in Zurich with Georges. She said she’d love to, but that she had this feeling about her mother. She hadn’t said this to anyone in her family, but she wanted to be here for Christmas.

As they pulled into the drive they became aware of the huge golden ball emerging on the horizon. They’d decided earlier not to stay on the beach to wait for the moon—they thought it would be rising much later. It wasn’t late but Avril said she was tired and wanted to go to bed to read. Heather sat out on the deck and gazed at the wonderful moon. Soon it was covered by cloud. She thought of Ivan and wondered if he’d seen it too. She wondered what he was doing. Avril had said Dennis claimed that some of the strangest crimes were committed on a full moon, although she was curious about what effect the range of drugs available now also had.

Avril appeared on the deck in her dressing gown. “I feel terrible, do you think it was something we ate?”

Heather told her she felt fine.

“Do you think you could take me to the hospital?”

Wow, this was a surprise! “Of course.” Heather moved quickly. She grabbed her handbag. “You should bring some ID,” she told Avril, then dialled the emergency number to obtain the address of the hospital. The drive seemed to take ages.

As the car negotiated a roundabout Avril slumped against the window. Heather wasn’t sure whether or not she was taking a turn. She slowed down and Avril sat up, though she looked dreadful—that grey colour skin can have, and a calm stare.

Heather drove as carefully as she could; by the time they got to Emergency, Avril had brightened up. The doctor asked Heather a few questions, they were taking Avril’s pulse and heart readings; he told her to wait outside.

Heather didn’t know how long it was before the doctor came out.

“I am very sorry,” he said, frowning. “Your friend became unconscious, and we couldn’t revive her.”

Heather’s mind raced. This wasn’t happening. She heard a question.

“Are you her next of kin?”

“Her husband is in Vancouver, she’s here on holiday.” Heather burst into tears.

“He will need to be contacted.”