Justin felt solid and comfortable. He did ask her personal questions, but he didn’t press her when she didn’t answer. She told him about Grandpa Tom and his stories. She told him about her house in Yarraville, across the road from the oil terminal, down the road from the refineries, and her fear that her mother would sell it and move and the house would no longer be theirs.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘I lived in the west when I lived in Melbourne, in Sunshine. Most people couldn’t wait to get out. Don’t you worry about living so close to the refineries?’
‘No,’ she told him. ‘You get used to it.’
From their vantage point, they could see the beach populated by shade tents and domes, by sunbathers and swimmers, by squealing children and the rumble of jetski motors and fishing boats.
‘When I was a kid, I used to point to the signs — Dangerous, Explosive — and my mother would avoid explaining, try to change the subject, until one day, she was frustrated with my questions, and she said, “It means the whole place could blow up. One big fireball.”’
‘Gosh, did it freak you out?’ Justin asked.
‘It must’ve. I remember worrying we’d catch fire and our house would burn down. Mum tried to take it back, and said, “We’ll run like the wind until we’re far, far away.” But after that, I had these repeating fire dreams: great walls of flames roaring towards the house.’
‘There was an explosion once, on Coode Island,’ Justin said.
‘I didn’t find out about the Coode Island fire until I was older. Apparently the smoke choked the neighbourhood and people were evacuated from their houses and schools and businesses. I was a baby when it happened and we were living in Braybrook. Mum said my grandfather was evacuated. He spent a couple of days on our couch in the flat. She told me Grandpa Tom used to say, “Lucky the wind was blowing towards the city that day, towards those rich bastards.”’
All through her childhood and into adolescence, Jo had dreamt about the tanks exploding, and the flames chasing her and her mother. Often in these dreams she ran, exhausted and breathless, not knowing whether they would make it, whether they would escape, whether the house would survive. When her mother told her about the actual fire, those dreams stopped. She’d told Ash about the dreams and their sudden departure. Ash had laughed. ‘My dreams are set in forests or deserts, places I haven’t been, beautiful places. I can’t believe you, anxious even in your sleep.’
‘Portarlington must be a big change,’ Justin said.
‘It is, and I know it sounds strange to you, but I love our house and I miss it.’
‘So why did you leave?’
These were the sorts of questions she couldn’t answer. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to stay. She became adept at changing the conversation, at steering it in other directions.
Jo regretted changing her name to Ashleigh. It was a stupid, spur-of-the-moment mistake. She lived with the dread of Sue and Laurie and Justin finding out. If a cop walked past the restaurant or if patron seemed vaguely familiar, it sent her into a panic. But she liked the way Ashleigh, the name, transformed her into someone else. Not Ash, but also not Jo. It was liberating. Ashleigh wasn’t a killer. Ashleigh could live. Ashleigh could laugh. Ashleigh could be funny. Ashleigh deserved to be happy, to be loved. At school Jo had avoided taking drama. Now she was playing at being Ashleigh, like an actor in a play, she could see the attraction. To be given a name, a personality, a life that isn’t yours, and to be allowed to become that person. There were moments of exhilaration, when the world was open with possibility.
If only she’d chosen another name — she could’ve become Melissa or Annabelle or Chelsea or Jodie — then maybe Ash would’ve stopped plaguing her, stopped occupying her dreams, taunting her with nightmares.
You’re not me.
I know.
You can’t take over my life.
I know.
My family won’t let you.
I know.
Well, stop using my name.
Jo volunteered to work Christmas Day. Sue and Laurie were in Melbourne, having Christmas with Laurie’s sister. A number of the permanent staff wanted the day off, so no one seemed concerned that Jo wouldn’t be spending time with family.
On Christmas morning, Jo sent her mother and grandmother messages, but didn’t return their calls. The connection between them and Ashleigh, the girl rushing off early to set the tables and help with the carving of the roasts, was tenuous; she couldn’t think what she might say to them.
Once her shift started, there was no time to think. The customers were large extended-family groups, mainly from the caravan park. There were balloons and tinsel, and the music — Christmas-themed — was loud and eclectic, including old Bing Crosby classics and songs by Billy Bragg and Coldplay. There were kids running around, and most of the adults were drunk before the entree was served. By the time they had cleaned up after lunch, they had to set up the dinner buffet. When the staff gathered for a quick meal at four-thirty, she sat quietly at the end of the table while the others told anecdotes about the silly, rude, ridiculous things some of their customers had said and done. It was then that she thought about Ash, and Ash’s family. Last year, she’d gone to Ash’s for pudding after Christmas lunch at Mary’s house with her mother and an elderly couple who were long time neighbours of Mary’s. She could hear Ash’s family, their laughter, their animated conversations, from the end of the street. There was a cricket game in the driveway and people spread through the house and the backyard. Ash’s father was playing the Eagles and singing along. And Ash and Jane were teasing him.
‘Great, Jo’s here,’ Ash said when Jo walked in the door. And there was a boisterous Merry Christmas, Jo from Ash’s family.
She felt a wave of sadness and grief. There would probably be no Christmas lunch at Ash’s house this year. No laughter or singing. No Ash. She could feel herself sinking.
Jo was relieved when Justin shouted across the table, ‘Sorry to break this up, but we need to get back to work, guys.’ He pointed outside and they could see that the first of the dinner bookings were lining up outside the door.
It was well after midnight by the time she got to bed, grateful to be too exhausted to think.
The week between Christmas and New Year, the stream of holiday-makers arriving in town increased severalfold; cars toeing jetskis, caravans, or boats, or overloaded with bikes, toys, and children, clogged the main street. Every night the restaurant was full, and on New Year’s Eve they were booked out again. By the time they finished cleaning up and Justin suggested champagne, it was 3.00 am and she was not the only one too tired to hang around. She walked home past houses where the parties were still going, music blaring, voices streaming out of open front doors, partygoers too drunk or too tired to stand sprawled on front lawns. ‘Happy New Year,’ they yelled out to her, holding up their glasses and bottles.
It was a new year. 2010. Twelve months ago she’d spent the night with Ash, Laura, and Mani. They’d made New Year’s resolutions standing on the balcony of Laura’s house, silly, ordinary resolutions — to study hard, to exercise, to lose weight — and danced until early morning. They’d been excited, and anxious too, as they looked forward to their last year of high school. One last hurdle. Around the corner, freedom and the beginning of their ‘real’ lives.
Jo crawled into her bunk in the dorm. 2009 had turned out to be Ash’s last year. Everything had gone to shit. She curled up, knees to chin. She would not make any resolutions; there was no point.