The Never Boys Read online

  ‘That makes two of us. But you — you look sensational!’

  Gone was the girl who watched Saturday morning cartoons in her pyjamas and rode horses, and in her place was a stunning young woman. She wore a matching salsa red sleeveless top and skirt. Her brown hair was pulled back to show off silver earrings. And a double hoop pendant circled her neck. Dean had never seen Michelle look this good. He doubted anyone had ever seen her look this good.

  ‘You scrub up all right yourself,’ she joked in an ocker accent, trying to deflect attention.

  ‘I don’t know if I’m supposed to be the musician or the waiter,’ he replied, glancing down at his suit and bow tie.

  ‘You look very stylish,’ she reassured him. Then, conscious of any double meaning, she focused on the whispering from inside. ‘Are my parents still looking through the curtains?’

  He peered over her freckled shoulder and instantly created a flutter at the window. ‘We should leave,’ he said.

  Roof down, Old Clive’s Chevy Bel Air breezed past the outskirts of Angaston and under a long arch of gums knotted in the middle. Normally, the little known road was a trap for tourists, but that afternoon it rolled with Jaguars, Alfa Romeos, Saabs and four-wheel drives. Dean followed them to an expansive orange orchard, which dipped in the middle like a bowl. In a makeshift car park, two hundred guests exchanged butterfly kisses as a nervous groom shook hands and hugged relatives between sweaty pats of a handkerchief. In the background, caterers unloaded prawns, oysters and bottles of wine while the clear afternoon sky cooled to a deeper blue.

  ‘Are you sure the bride and groom are okay with me being here?’ Michelle asked.

  ‘They owe me a massive favour and you’re it,’ he answered. ‘The bride said she’d be honoured to have you attend as long as you don’t steal her husband away.’

  He took his guitar from the back seat and walked her past the marquee and yellow rosebushes into the orchard. In a clearing were rows of fold-up chairs, early arrivals and a young priest. The pair sat off to the side, where he introduced her to two other flamenco guitarists also hired for the occasion.

  ‘Encantado de conocerle,’ one greeted her in Spanish with a peck on the hand.

  ‘Why, thank you.’ She blushed.

  ‘Get a vet to look at that later,’ he said as she withdrew her hand.

  The first guitarist cursed good-naturedly in Spanish and attracted ignorant laughs.

  ‘Michelle plays flamenco too,’ Dean added. ‘She’s going to perform a solo for the newlyweds later.’

  ‘Am not!’ she said, punching his shoulder. Of course, this only stirred more humour.

  The guitarists had plenty of time to make jokes. The bride, as was her right, kept the entire wedding party waiting for another forty-five minutes. But when she stepped out of a black Rolls Royce, all was forgiven.

  She was gorgeous. Arm-in-arm with her stout father, she slowly followed two young flower girls between the fruit trees in a flowing, shoulderless white dress. A crown of orange blossoms ringed her short black hair. Reaching the middle of the clearing, her father presented her to the groom, clasped their hands together then stepped aside as the priest began the ceremony.

  ‘What an astonishing sight,’ he announced, as the guitars faded. ‘Is there a lovelier spot for two young people to be brought together in marriage?’

  After each sentence, a woman beside the priest translated everything into Spanish. This continued throughout the entire ceremony, with only the hymns sung in English. It was a long service, blending both the traditional and the modern. Communion was held one moment, then a rock song played the next.

  Soon came the vows, the kiss, the pronouncement, cheers, more guitars, then fireworks. The couple were finally husband and wife. The guests saluted them with soap bubbles, rose petals and more applause as they signed the registry before being led away by the photographer. Ravenous and in high spirits, the rest of the party headed for the marquee where tapas, jamón, cheese and paellas were being served with pre-dinner drinks.

  Initially, Michelle hung to the edges with a plateful of food. She was too shy to introduce herself to a tent full of strangers, some of whom themselves had only been in Australia for less than forty-eight hours. Dean planned to rescue her between musical sets. But when the break came, he noticed a teenage guy had introduced himself and several other guests. So he kept on playing, mixing notes with the laughter of the wedding party.

  When it was time for dinner, he took a seat at the furthest table, listening to the speeches, toasts, proud in-laws and the occasional clinking of wine glasses coaxing the newlyweds to kiss. Towards the end, he caught himself having a really cool time. He could have blamed the food but truth be told it was the company. Michelle and he were cracking jokes and playing games of one-upmanship. It reminded him of their time together at the stables, their walk through Adelaide and the General’s fiftieth. She’d always been a funny girl, albeit coy. She liked everything he did: punk, flamenco, movies, cartoons, the odd joke and the sea. He always felt relaxed round her, never nervous like he felt with Zara. Maybe because they shared the same interests, sense of humour and that —

  (Kiss.)

  Stop it. That was a mistake, okay? Just a mixed-up sign of affection. A spur of the moment thing. Flattering sure, but he wasn’t interested.

  (Really?)

  Besides, she was young. Fifteen! Still a girl. Ages behind.

  (Oh, and how old are you?)

  C’mon, she was a friend. A platonic friend. Someone who was uncomplicated, non-sexual and — and — just there.

  (So why have you spent the last few days thinking of her?)

  A caterer interrupted Dean with dessert — a much welcomed distraction. He couldn’t grab his fork quick enough. It was a triangle of white chocolate cheesecake topped with kiwifruit and mango slices then drizzled with a dark chocolate hot sauce. The first taste was a mouthful of glory. Licking his lips, it reminded him of —

  (Michelle’s kiss.)

  Enough!

  Evening spread through the marquee with the same smoothness as the sherry. Soon, the musicians were called upon again and he excused himself from the table. After some urging by the bride’s father, the wedding party followed them back to the clearing, where a small fire burned. The trio struck up a tune, the groom bowed and his gorgeous wife agreed to a request for the first dance. They started with a traditional waltz, but soon the guitarists upped the tempo with a more hot-blooded tune. The newlyweds circled each other in full dress, surrendering to the fluid movements of flamenco as best as their clothes allowed. Soon the in-laws followed, then the remaining guests, the priest and the flower girls.

  Again, Dean feared Michelle would hide, but was happy to see her joining in the celebrations. First, she accepted a dance with an older gentleman, then a groomsman. Finally, the same teenage guy that she’d met earlier in the night offered to teach her some more intimate moves.

  After a few songs, the guests started presenting their gifts to the married couple, who took great delight in opening them in front of the party. The jokes, hugs and surprises only added to the frivolity. Once this finished, the bride’s father took control once again, clapping his hands over his head to assemble the guests for a traditional wedding dance. Dean watched Michelle take to it with gusto. Not knowing the moves made it even more fun. She laughed as heartily as he played.

  A great shout of celebration ended with applause and allowed some of the guests to move back to the sides while others continued dancing. The bride walked among them, passing around a small gift to each female guest, including Michelle, who took hers with surprise. ‘Open it,’ the bride insisted. Inside a box was handmade lavender soap shaped into shells and seahorses. To the men, the groom handed out cigars.

  Dean kept playing, though. His fingers slid up and down the strings, as flamenco burst from him again. He channelled real passion worthy of such a beautiful wedding; his notes rising on the embers into the night sky.

&nb
sp; The party continued for quite a long time before feet became sore and guests finished slumped in chairs, saluting with wine glasses. His fingers were raw, almost bloodied. The other two musicians fell away, leaving him as a soloist. Never before had he played with such verve, such soul. It was his wedding gift.

  When the final note hummed, the crowd was silent before a roaring applause. Bashfully, he grinned then bowed. This was his stage. Among the happy, not the depressed.

  ‘Why don’t you have a break?’ the first guitarist suggested, as they took over the next set. ‘Besides, I think it’s time you asked your friend for a dance.’

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘“Which friend?”’ the guitarist snorted, shaking his head. ‘The girl you have been spying on all night.’

  ‘I’ve only been making sure she’s okay. She seems happy enough dancing with that young guy.’

  The guitarist returned to his notes with a shrug, and Dean, thinking he’d been forgotten, stood up to find a drink. But the guitarist held him back. ‘Young man, I’ll give you some advice. Mastering love songs does not mean you are a master of love.’

  Oh-kay. Dismissing the guy as a loony, he thanked him — for what? — and poured himself a soft drink. He joined the circle of people shouting to the remaining dancers; Michelle and her new friend among them. The boy was good. Very good. Definitely someone who knew flamenco. And no doubt how to impress the girls.

  ‘Not a master of love?’ Dean growled, skolling his drink. ‘Let’s see how fast you play, mate.’

  ‘Hi Dean!’ Michelle giggled, as the teenage boy bent her backwards in his arms.

  ‘Do you mind if I finish this dance?’ he asked.

  The boy looked almost insulted at the request. She solved the problem for them by freeing herself.

  As Dean led her to the edge of the circle, the song suddenly changed. Sly, he thought, eyeing the two guitarists. And worse — those first five notes — it was a full-blooded courting song. Ha ha, guys. Very funny.

  Split into two groups, the men bowed and the women curtsied. Each side danced to impress the other before slow-stepping in a circle. Everyone partnered off as the melody grew livelier. A flourish of notes twisted and placed him face-to-face with his blushing friend. But the song was about a cat-and-mouse chase. Michelle swirled away, pretending to snub him.

  Soon they realised they were the centre of attention. Most of the other dancers had faded away. The pressure grew too much and they paused with laughter, embarrassed to have stolen the focus away from the bride and groom.

  They escaped into the orchard, paying each other out.

  ‘I’m sorry for kicking you in the shins,’ she said between breaths.

  ‘And I’m sorry for slapping you in the face,’ he said.

  ‘Where did you learn to dance like that?’

  ‘Dance? “Stagger haphazardly”, don’t you mean?’

  ‘No, you were really good.’

  Now he was the one blushing. ‘You know those culture festivals where you see dozens of little kids dressed up in daggy national costumes?’

  ‘You were one of them?’

  He nodded. ‘Mum used to dress me up as a matador and force me to attend.’

  ‘You in a little hat and cape? How cute!’

  Another firework lit up his embarrassed face.

  ‘What is the obsession with oranges?’ she asked, touching one.

  ‘It’s a tradition. Oranges symbolise chastity and virility. And the trees are evergreens, which symbolise everlasting love.’

  ‘Lucky then that Spain isn’t full of cacti.’

  ‘Or stinkweed.’

  They laughed again in the solitude. Conscious of this, they turned and looked at the clearing. The elderly guests were lining up to farewell the bride and groom as the music turned more contemporary. Panic fluttered inside him. He didn’t want the celebrations to stop.

  ‘We should get back,’ she suggested.

  ‘Just one minute.’

  Standing close to her, he could smell mandarin and cardamom in her hair. He could count every single freckle on her nose and smell the lavender on her hands.

  ‘Michelle?’ Her name. It was almost impossible to say.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know the other day —’

  Coyly, ‘At — our lesson?’

  He nodded. Swallowed. ‘How can I put this?’

  ‘Just say it.’

  ‘What if I was wrong?’

  She looked at him but couldn’t speak. The stunned silence frightened him as much as losing her. So he made the first move.

  Their lips touched.

  Melded.

  Surged.

  Then parted.

  Before kissing again.

  Chapter 23

  From that night, Dean and Michelle were inseparable. They sang carols by candlelight in the winery’s grounds. They got busted sneaking up to the bell tower during work. They made chocolate frogs and pralines and one giant mess. They played cowboy, riding horseback along hills as far as the corellas would lead them. They combed the summer heat from each other’s hair and held one another on the veranda to watch rain fill the creek.

  But his favourite moment started on Christmas Day. After a belly full of roast, it was time to swap presents. He received a second-hand record player, several old LPs and a box of truffles. She got a retro T-shirt printed with the words KISSES 5¢. ‘How many do I get for twenty dollars?’ he joked, opening his wallet. But it was the next gift that confused everybody. She pulled a black blindfold from a biscuit tin as if it was a dead rat. ‘Thanks — I think.’

  ‘You’ll understand in a fortnight,’ was his only explanation.

  Even then she was still underwhelmed. She had to be reminded of her ‘great’ surprise. Picking her up in the Chevy, he blindfolded her, then chaperoned her into the city, attracting plenty of laughs and shocked onlookers. When they stopped ninety minutes later, seagulls and a hot briny wind pinpointed their location. ‘We’re at the beach?’

  ‘Take your blindfold off.’

  The wide, flat expanse of St Vincent Gulf brightened in her vision. A long wooden jetty pointed west, where anglers cast their lines. Orange cliffs sharpened to the right and dunes rolled down the far left.

  ‘Port Noarlunga? Why?’

  He met her at the boot. Inside were snorkels, masks, fins, towels, their swimming costumes and a disposable underwater camera.

  ‘No, Dean. Please. I don’t want to,’ she said, pulling away.

  But he held tight. ‘You can’t be an explorer if you don’t go into the water.’

  ‘Next year, okay?’

  ‘It is next year. C’mon, at least meet the instructors.’

  Plenty of reassuring words later, they eventually coaxed her to suit up. He joined her by the shore, also skinned in black. ‘But you haven’t had any lessons,’ she noted.

  He grimaced. ‘You know how I said I’ve been working the past two Saturdays? Well —’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘So you wouldn’t be alone.’

  She was flattered, but still uneasy. The other scuba divers moved into the water. ‘What if there are sharks?’

  ‘Then they’ll eat me first — I’m bigger.’

  Understandably, his joke fell flat. So instead, he held her hand and stroked it with his thumb. ‘Trust me.’

  Then their world sank into the blue.

  Trailed by pearls of air, the group slowly skimmed over the seabed towards a reef perpendicular to the jetty. Far from being invaders, the divers were almost treated with bemused familiarity. Gobbleguts, leatherjackets, wobbegongs, catsharks, goatfish, toadfish and pufferfish lazed in the waters, seemingly moving only with the drift. Others continued feeding. The only curious welcomer was a magnificent southern blue devil with big, rolling yellow eyes. It swam right up to the divers’ masks, slipping away at the first sign of a reaching glove. To the left, a school of bullseye zipped past Michelle, scaring her, but soon she settled again wh
en she realised they meant no harm. An instructor eased her fears further by waving her over to help give a hovering cuttlefish a backrub. In turn it showed its appreciation by splaying its tentacles out wide.

  Closer to the reef, Dean photographed the moment then swam to the other side. He scouted the bottom, looking for the unmistakable shape of stingrays.

  Time passed quickly. She checked every fish, polyp and shell, occasionally grabbing him to show an underwater marvel that only she could value. He felt pretty chuffed at the whole experience. He was sure he could hear her giggling through the water.

  When the hand signal was given to surface, she begged to stay. They only lured her out with the promise of next week’s lesson.

  The day got better on the trip home. With a pile of potato scallops and chips on the front seat, she recounted every creature she’d seen and started planning diving holidays round Australia, the Pacific Islands and even the Caribbean. ‘This is the best Christmas present ever,’ she purred.

  And to show her gratitude, she challenged him to a game of Stop Traffic. The rules were simple: at every green light, they had to drive through as normal. At every red one, they had to kiss uninterrupted until the signal changed.

  Understandably, he took the long way back.

  New Guinea

  Christmas ’52

  Dearest Bea,

  Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from the tropics! I’ve enclosed some prints of a singsing I photographed last year to give you an idea of how some of the natives celebrate. I went to another village this year where they put on a huge dinner for all the people and their guests. Just like Australia, they had ham. Except here they don’t buy it from the butcher. They tie up a pig by the legs, carry it on a pole still squealing, hit it on the head with a club then cook it over a fire. All while it’s still alive!

  Since I last wrote, I’ve quit the sawmill and am now working at an airfield fixing engines on all sorts of vehicles, not just planes. I was called away to Rabaul recently to fix up some trucks that had got themselves into a terrible mess. The problems here are nothing like those the mechanics in Sydney have to deal with. Ask any of them if they’ve seen what volcanic ash, sulphur, sea spray and humidity does to a car!