tightly. She grimaced on those occasions when the tide swept in farther than expected and soaked her feet. Despite the dance, her hem became wet and grimy.
‘You don’t like the water?’ Melanie asked after Helena had dodged another surge in some private game of tag.
‘On no, but I do. I love it. It’s been washing up on this beach since the very first ray of light hit the Earth, and it’ll still be doing it when the world ends. The sea is life, Melanie, eternal life; how could I not love it? It’s just … it frightens me too.’
‘Because of the sharks?’
‘I guess, maybe. It’s not safe, is it? It’s wild and deep and forever. Today, it seems angry.’
‘It’s the storm. I think it’s getting closer. See there, we can hardly see Moreton Island; it must be rain or mist or something.’
Helena turned to the sea, her cheeks shining and rosy. Melanie felt a tingle of fear—was her companion getting sunburnt, as she’d warned? Too many people forgot that even if the sun wasn’t bright and burning, the radiation was still getting through. But if Helena was in discomfort, she wasn’t showing it. She pushed her hat back as she stuck her red-tipped nose into the wind and breathed deeply.
‘I love this smell.’
‘Maybe we should head back. It’s getting cold and I think it’s going to rain.’
‘I don’t feel cold. Do you?’
‘It is kind of brisk.’ Melanie wished she’d worn longer pants or at least a coat. Her ankles were pale and splotched. The water was icy around her feet; she could barely feel her toes. ‘Let’s walk a little higher, hey? Up where it’s dry.’
They trudged up to the powdery sand, the grains squeaking under their feet. The light grew dimmer and the temperature dropped. But Helena seemed entranced by it all, and Melanie didn’t want to be a party pooper. The bunker wasn’t far. They’d have a quick look and then retreat to the cabin. Maybe take the road behind the dune, where they’d be more sheltered from the wind.
A figure approached out of the murk: a man with a bucket and a fishing rod, his pants rolled up above his knees, a cap stuck defiantly on his head as the wind tore at his shirt.
‘It’s Jack,’ Melanie said, raising her sandals in greeting.
Friday jogged at Jack’s feet, nosing around where the waves washed in, his tail wagging uncertainly as he sprang back from the surging foam.
When Jack shouted hello, his voice snatched away by the wind, the dog raised his muzzle, his ears pricked, and then came charging towards them as though Melanie was carrying fresh steaks rather than a pair of sandals.
Helena gripped Melanie’s hand so hard she thought her fingers would snap. The woman pressed herself into Melanie’s side. Friday started yapping when he was halfway across the distance between them, then pulled up in a puff of sand a couple of metres away. His brown eyes fixed on Helena as he lifted his tail, dug his front paws in and barked like a machinegun.
The woman stumbled back, clinging to Melanie’s arm.
Melanie shouted, ‘Friday, what the hell’s got into you? It’s me, you stupid mutt. Stop it!’
Jack jogged up, calling his dog, but Friday kept jagging from side to side, his sharp, incessant yaps slicing across the wind. Jack nudged the dog with the bucket, then put it down so he could cuff him around the head. He took a solid hold on Friday’s collar. The dog’s hackles stayed high and he kept growling, his lips pulled back to show his yellow-white teeth.
‘What’s got into him?’ Melanie asked, aware of the tremble in her voice. She’d known Friday since he was a pup; he’d never done this before.
‘Must be the storm,’ Jack said. ‘He hasn’t frightened you, has he?’
‘Just a shock. I hope he’s all right,’ Melanie said.
‘Maybe he’s getting like his owner—not used to company.’ Jack shook his head. ‘You should probably think about turning back, too. That storm’s gonna break before dark, I’d
‘You don’t like the water?’ Melanie asked after Helena had dodged another surge in some private game of tag.
‘On no, but I do. I love it. It’s been washing up on this beach since the very first ray of light hit the Earth, and it’ll still be doing it when the world ends. The sea is life, Melanie, eternal life; how could I not love it? It’s just … it frightens me too.’
‘Because of the sharks?’
‘I guess, maybe. It’s not safe, is it? It’s wild and deep and forever. Today, it seems angry.’
‘It’s the storm. I think it’s getting closer. See there, we can hardly see Moreton Island; it must be rain or mist or something.’
Helena turned to the sea, her cheeks shining and rosy. Melanie felt a tingle of fear—was her companion getting sunburnt, as she’d warned? Too many people forgot that even if the sun wasn’t bright and burning, the radiation was still getting through. But if Helena was in discomfort, she wasn’t showing it. She pushed her hat back as she stuck her red-tipped nose into the wind and breathed deeply.
‘I love this smell.’
‘Maybe we should head back. It’s getting cold and I think it’s going to rain.’
‘I don’t feel cold. Do you?’
‘It is kind of brisk.’ Melanie wished she’d worn longer pants or at least a coat. Her ankles were pale and splotched. The water was icy around her feet; she could barely feel her toes. ‘Let’s walk a little higher, hey? Up where it’s dry.’
They trudged up to the powdery sand, the grains squeaking under their feet. The light grew dimmer and the temperature dropped. But Helena seemed entranced by it all, and Melanie didn’t want to be a party pooper. The bunker wasn’t far. They’d have a quick look and then retreat to the cabin. Maybe take the road behind the dune, where they’d be more sheltered from the wind.
A figure approached out of the murk: a man with a bucket and a fishing rod, his pants rolled up above his knees, a cap stuck defiantly on his head as the wind tore at his shirt.
‘It’s Jack,’ Melanie said, raising her sandals in greeting.
Friday jogged at Jack’s feet, nosing around where the waves washed in, his tail wagging uncertainly as he sprang back from the surging foam.
When Jack shouted hello, his voice snatched away by the wind, the dog raised his muzzle, his ears pricked, and then came charging towards them as though Melanie was carrying fresh steaks rather than a pair of sandals.
Helena gripped Melanie’s hand so hard she thought her fingers would snap. The woman pressed herself into Melanie’s side. Friday started yapping when he was halfway across the distance between them, then pulled up in a puff of sand a couple of metres away. His brown eyes fixed on Helena as he lifted his tail, dug his front paws in and barked like a machinegun.
The woman stumbled back, clinging to Melanie’s arm.
Melanie shouted, ‘Friday, what the hell’s got into you? It’s me, you stupid mutt. Stop it!’
Jack jogged up, calling his dog, but Friday kept jagging from side to side, his sharp, incessant yaps slicing across the wind. Jack nudged the dog with the bucket, then put it down so he could cuff him around the head. He took a solid hold on Friday’s collar. The dog’s hackles stayed high and he kept growling, his lips pulled back to show his yellow-white teeth.
‘What’s got into him?’ Melanie asked, aware of the tremble in her voice. She’d known Friday since he was a pup; he’d never done this before.
‘Must be the storm,’ Jack said. ‘He hasn’t frightened you, has he?’
‘Just a shock. I hope he’s all right,’ Melanie said.
‘Maybe he’s getting like his owner—not used to company.’ Jack shook his head. ‘You should probably think about turning back, too. That storm’s gonna break before dark, I’d
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