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ngel slid the sausages out of the pan onto the plate. The sizzling fat spattered her arm like a sparkler as the greasy logs slipped into place beside the mound of mashed potatoes and peas. She placed the plate on the plastic tablecloth in front of Wayne. He barely looked up from the telly. He was having a one-way conversation with the quiz show contestant as she spun the prize wheel. ‘Com’on … stop at the fecking boat!’ The aluminium walls of their caravan creaked as he thumped the table when the wheel clicked past the boat and stopped. LOSE A TURN. Summer had been so long. It was exhausting, especially at night when not even a breeze whimpered off the sea. Angel was trapped in this oversized tin can. She opened the fridge and took out another beer. She knew the drill. It was worth her sanity and her unbruised skin to keep the peace. She held the curved dewy bottle in her cleavage to cool herself a little before twisting the stubby into its holder and handing it to Wayne. His only thanks, a fleshy belch, as he passed her the empty. She placed it next to the plastic garbage bin. Six dead marines since he’d been home from work. She moved her chair to the breezeway and slumped into it. The tin can they lived in had two temperatures: stinking and freezing. Tonight, it was stinking as the mozzies pooled around the screen door waiting to slip into the annexe with its scent of sausages and sweat. Angel pulled her t-shirt up over her loose breasts and daubed her face. January could be as cruel as her husband. ‘I’m going out tonight, Wayne, I’ve gotta get out of this heat.’ Wayne’s eyes flickered from the telly. He stopped sucking his beer. ‘Like hell you are.’ ‘I’m going prawning down The Narrows. The run’s started. Everyone in the park’s talking about it. I borrowed a net from Jack, and seeing he’s had that stroke he won’t be prawning again. Life’s cruel, ain’t it.’ She pondered at the hopelessness of Jack’s life. ‘At least he’s started to talk again, that’s good, ain’t it?’ her voice 36 TVO
DEATH BY PRAWNING BY MARIAN MCGUINNESS
raised optimistically. ‘And he’s lent me his special torch; it’s a beauty, goes right under the water like a submarine. Says I’ll see all the way to the co-op with it. Just think, fresh prawns, not like the fried crap from Greasy Joe’s.’ Wayne stabbed a nugget of sausage, dipped it in the mash and peas and trawled it through the speckled tomato sauce sludge. He washed it down with half a stubby and forced a burp. ‘Stupid cow. What would you know about prawning? For one thing, you gotta get into the water, and you can’t even fecking swim.’
Angel’s head had been a mess lately. Her brain was like a jigsaw where too many pieces were pushing together. The lousy caravan. The heat. The rough, drunken fumbles under the sheets that she couldn’t get away from. Koala. That’s what his friends called him. They cracked-up at their crass in-joke every time she was with him. Sleep snug last night did ya, Koala? She’d loved to have shouted, Koala’s drowned his brain and withered his willy with booze! But she never had the courage to stand up for herself. Not until now. Angel opened The Lakes Times at the tide chart and spread it over the greasy plates. The grime blotted through the pages. ‘I’ve been studying the charts,’ she said, with as much excitement as she would allow herself to show. ‘Low tide’s in an hour, an’ that’s the best time to go prawning. Catch the little
buggers as they swim out the channel to the sea. An’ the moon’s right. Just a sliver. It’s gotta be a new moon, so it’s nice and dark. You’ll see. I’ll catch enough for a prawn supper.’ ‘I’ve been studying the charts,’ Wayne mocked … ‘you gotta be kidding. You need brains to study and we both know where your brains are.’ He flicked his fingers between her thighs and massaged. ‘How do I know you’re not gonna meet one of your fancy fellas,’ and he clamped his hand as she winced at the sudden pain. ‘Well, I’ll cramp your style. I’m comin’ with you.’ Wayne went outside to their small storage locker attached to the annexe. He fossicked around for his waders and prawning net. He hadn’t used them in years. Angel changed into her boardies and beach shoes. She tied a bit of rope to an old foam beer cooler and stuck it in the car. Wayne revved the engine. Everything revolved around his needs. His time. Just before Angel locked the sliding door, she took an officiallooking envelope from the cupboard under the sink and propped it against the tomato sauce bottle in the middle of the kitchen table. She rarely got mail. Everything was addressed to Wayne and even if her name was on the envelope, he still opened it. But this time it was different. She’d picked up the mail this morning at the caravan park office after Wayne had gone to work, and hidden it. Now, it was waiting for her return. The envelope of possibility. Mrs Angela White Pelican Point Caravan Park NSW The car park at The Narrows was buzzing with the 70s music from hippypainted Kombis and the duff-duff of the local teens’ hotted-up cars. It was the end of the school holidays and families were picnicking in the twilight on the grassy verge of the channel trying to get some relief from the heat. Angel loved walking along the boardwalk at night. It was the closest she could get to being on holiday. Wayne followed her towards the boat ramp, past the meaty smells of charring shish kebabs cooking over
