Radley

Radley sucks. It’s too small of a town with little to do and only the basics to support yourself. At least, that’s what Moira tries to tell herself.

“A one-way ticket to Radley, please,” she tells the train attendant, who looks bored as he hands her the ticket in exchange for a few dollars. He informs her it’s a five-hour ride and she tries not to groan out loud.

She fails.

The town of Radley isn’t as small as other small towns, but as far as Moira’s concerned, there could not be a worse place to spend her summer. Sure, it’s on the coastline, which means decent waves – but better waves at Hurst, the neighbouring town (and by neighbouring, it’s at least an hour drive) – and there’s a decent sized forest for hikes and to get lost in. Moira’s encountered a wild crocodile once or twice, dolphins if you swim or boat out far enough and of course, the wild snakes and kangaroos. And don’t think that you never see koalas or echidnas here either. Moira’s always thought about opening up an animal sanctuary here, for all the animals she’s helped nurse back to health. And okay yes, if you travel less than two hours away, Rosemarie’s cliff is great to jump off and hang out in. The rocks are kind of dangerous but if you know your way around, you’ll be fine. And fine, every summer Mayor Johnson tries to draw the tourist crowds in by hosting events almost every week to rally the community spirit and raise money for local tourism and businesses. So, it’s not all bad.

But what happens if it’s raining? Then what is Moira supposed to do? Internet exists in Radley, sure, but it’s occasionally spotty and people would prefer to pop in rather than just shoot a text. And hello, what is she supposed to do without her non-fat no sugar caramel latte? Do you think Gloria Jeans has anything close to the quality that her favourite cafes in New York provide?

Moira’s been in New York for the past year on a working visa. She came for the experience and the culture and loved it so much that she didn’t want to leave. Of course though, when you live in a house with a bunch of models who love to party, it’s hard to have a budget. So, back to Radley she went. She wanted to go to Melbourne, the nearest capital city to Radley, since she’ll be there in March starting uni with her best friend Ronnie, but her parents were firmly against it. Something about “you grew up in Radley and have been there every summer since we moved away when you went to secondary school” and “you really want to miss the summer events?”

It’s not like Moira had the funds to stay in Melbourne for the summer, but a girl could dream, right?

Five hours takes a long time to pass, but once the train arrives at Radley station, Moira wishes the train ride could have been longer. It’s time to say goodbye to the first-class accommodation and expensive living, and hello to the simple pleasure that calls itself Radley.

Simple pleasures. As if there’s even such a thing?

Radley Station is deserted, save one or two cars. One is a shitty Toyota that looks as if it’s going to break down at any given moment. The other is an unwashed white Ute that the old Moira would’ve loved to sit on the back on. New Moira is a little tempted by it, but then the sudden thought of dust, wind and who knows what else making her dirty turns her off. Perhaps if she were dressed in her trackies, she’d want to.

Moira scans the area, spotting a bus stop in the distance. She sighs. In hindsight, she should have realised that wearing open toed sandals isn’t a good idea, with the dusty plains and such. She is in the middle of nowhere, after all. She begins her walk, often checking her phone for service. She can only get one bar. This is extremely depressing.

When she reaches the bus stop, she parks her oversized suitcase next to the bench and checks the times for the next bus. The rest of her stuff is being sent via boxes to Melbourne, at her new apartment that she and Ronnie will share when they start uni together. Moira’s excited. She only sees Ronnie when she’s down in Radley (besides her family, Ronnie’s the only person she’s looking forward to seeing). Ronnie may be forgetful and will probably burn the apartment down, but she makes a killer stack of pancakes and the best tacos Moira has ever tasted. The town of Radley can account for that.

Moira’s perfectly plucked eyebrows shoot up when she reads the time that the next bus to Radley is coming: 5.00pm. It’s 3.15pm. What the fuck is she supposed to do between now ‘til 5?

The first thing Moira does is call up Ronnie. Surely she can count on her best friend, right?

“Hey! This is Ronnie! Sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave me a message and I’ll be sure to get back to you!” Moira rolls her eyes and leaves a message on the answering machine:

“Hey, I’m at the station and I’m deserted here so if you could pick me up, that would be swell. Thanks.”

With a sigh, Moira sits on the bench, sighing louder this time when she realises that wearing black in the scorching sun is probably not the most appropriate choice. She’s pretty sure her skin’s going to burn instead of tan and even worse, she’ll freckle as well. Freckle! Freckles are beyond unattractive.

Twenty minutes later, Moira’s handling a cigarette between her fingers when the white Ute she spotted earlier pulls up in front of the bus station. Ugh. She is so not in the mood to be picked up by some lowlife probably rapist bogan.

“Hey there! You need a ride?” She doesn’t look at who’s speaking, but she knows it’s a shaggy haired blonde that’s calling from the driver’s seat. She can see it from her peripheral view, but that’s all.

“No,” she says shortly, taking one last puff before dropping the butt to the floor and squishing it against the pavement with her sandal.

She pointedly doesn’t look at him, but she realises she’s forced to when she hears a car door slam and her name being called.

“Whittaker?” Another voice speaks. He sounds familiar. “Moira?”

Moira looks at who’s standing in front of her. It’s the shaggy blonde with a dark tan and he’s cute. Surprisingly cute. He looks like he’s about 6’ or so but Moira can’t really tell. The other voice Moira had heard comes from the passenger seat, another blonde by the looks of it. Moira knows who the boys are, though. They’re always together. They’re like a gay couple without the actual gayness.

A faint smile is brought to her lips. “Johnson Johnson,” Moira drawls. “It’s been a while.”

Rumour has it that Johnson’s dad couldn’t think of a name for his son so he was called John’s son. The name stuck ever since.

Johnson’s kind of star struck at the moment. Well, more like lovestruck. He’s not in love with Moira, but he’s had a crush on her since primary school. Then she left for New York after she graduated and Johnson dated a few girls. And now, she’s back. Johnson’s been looking forward to her arrival ever since he heard that Moira was coming back to Radley for the summer.

He brought his best friend, Tate, along for the ride, since Tate was coming down to Radley for the summer anyways. He’d come to pick Tate up at the station, and then to see Moira at the bus stop by herself felt like fate. Well, to him. He’d take what he could get.

“That it has,” Johnson replies with a smile. It’s hard not to notice how different Moira is. She’s wearing black. She smokes cigarettes. He frowns. “Did you get taller?”

Surprisingly, Moira beams. “A whole inch,” she says proudly. “I’d like to be taller, but you know, I’ll take what I can get.” Moira and Johnson have never been proper friends per say, but they used to rescue animals and take care of them for a while before getting in trouble for stealing such and such animal from the local zoo or lake. Or Boyd’s dog. Whatever. It’s not like Boyd’s well-liked anyways.

Johnson chuckles. A silence forms between them, and Tate uses this opportunity to holler from the passenger seat. “Yo Whitty, you want a ride or what?”

A wry smile crosses Moira’s lips. “And where would I sit?”

Johnson shrugs. “In the back,” he starts, but not before seeing Moira’s horrified expression. Weird. Moira isn’t one to care about her appearance. “Or uh, Tate can get in the back with your suitcase. Don’t worry; he won’t throw it overboard or anything. He doesn’t do that shit anymore.”

Moira snorts. “Bullshit, but I’ll take the offer. Thanks Johnson.”

“Hey!” Tate yelps from the front seat, causing Moira and Johnson to chuckle. “I’m a reformed man!”



Despite whatever niceness was going on between Moira and Johnson, Moira is completely silent in the passenger seat as Johnson drives to Radley. He has attempted to make conversation but Moira gives him short answers, giving the indication that she isn’t really interested in small talk. Another odd thing about Moira. She’s always been receptive to him. Johnson figures she’s in a bad mood or something, and instead turns on the radio. A twangy indie song fills the speakers.

“Turn it up!” Tate yells, cupping his hands over his mouth so his best friend can hear him. “I can’t hear shit, dude!”

Moira rolls her eyes. It’s the fourth time Tate has asked to turn the music up, but Johnson can’t turn it up any louder. The song is shit and Johnson’s futile attempt at making conversation isn’t what Moira is interested in right now. She has nothing against Johnson, or Tate for that matter, but the anger she felt from having to live in Radley instead of Melbourne is beginning to creep up on her again. It doesn’t help that Johnson has officially entered Radley, with its deep forest area and the signs pointing to the beach coming up ahead. It’s another half an hour before she’ll arrive home. Moira sighs.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve done that,” Johnson points out suddenly. “What do you have against Radley? It’s home.”

“Was,” Moira corrects him. “Radley’s a shithole.”

Johnson’s stunned. “Since when do you think Radley’s a shithole? Do you not remember our great animal saving adventures?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Moira break her stoic expression for a moment before composing herself.

“When you’ve lived in New York for a year, any place you try to compare will be shitty. Radley doesn’t mean shit to me.”

Johnson knows that’s a lie, but he doesn’t push the situation. Instead, he finds himself a little disappointed – the girl he had a crush on is nothing like he remembers. What happened to her?

“I don’t like New York,” he says finally.

Moira frowns. “Have you even been?”

“I don’t need to, seeing how you are.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as mean it does, but it does and Johnson can’t take it back. Well. It’s not like it’s entirely untrue. Moira is different, and not in a way Johnson likes. “Sorry,” he adds. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Moira shrugs, pretending like it doesn’t affect her. “Except that you did.” Johnson opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. She ignores him and turns her body to look out the window instead, staring at the masses of trees. For a moment, she thinks she sees a lone figure in the distance, something white, perhaps? She blinks, and then it’s gone. Weird. Moira must be seeing things.

It feels like forever when Johnson finally enters the residential area of Radley. He remembers where she lives – everyone knows where everyone lives, because everyone knows everything about everyone’s business. Moira always hated that about Radley. The term privacy doesn’t seem to be a familiar concept in this town.

“We’re here,” Johnson announces, pulling up in front of Moira’s house. It’s a pretty two story, with a white picket fence and a pretty rose filled garden. Allegra grows the best roses. She’s also one of the hottest milfs Johnson’s ever seen, although she doesn’t bear much resemblance to Moira. They both have wicked eyebrows though.

“Cheers for the ride,” Moira says shortly, hopping out of the ute. Tate follows and gives Moira her suitcase. She pushes her cat-eye sunglasses from her forehead onto her eyes, thankful for some sort of protection. She acknowledges Tate with a nod. “Thanks.”

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” Tate mumbles before climbing into the passenger seat. As Johnson drives off, Tate rolls his eyes. “This is the girl you’ve had a crush on?”

“I liked Moira before she left,” Johnson points out, obviously disappointed. Tate can tell by the intent expression he gets on his face when something doesn’t make him happy. “I don’t know who that was.”

“I’m sure old Moira’s in there somewhere,” Tate suggests. “You just gotta like, show her or something. You have the whole summer.”

A slow smile spreads over Johnson’s face. “I knew we were best mates for a reason.”

Tate flicks his hair out of his face casually. “I thought it was for my impeccable hair and beautiful skin?”

Johnson snorts. “Fag.”

“Wanker.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too, bro.”



Moira settles herself down in her old room. It’s bright and colourful and she kind of despises it, but that familiarity of settling down in an unchanged area fills her with this inner warmth that doesn’t bother her so much. She kicks off her sandals and takes a seat on her bed, crossing her legs underneath her as she peers around. Faded photos of her and life in Radley take up space in odd spaces on her walls, with a framed photo of her and Ronnie at aged thirteen in the centre. They have their arms around each other with one of those stretched grins on their faces that told the world they were young and lived life freely with reckless abandon. Moira feels a pang in her heart at the thought of missing Ronnie and she wants to go see her, but dinner’s nearly ready and Moira knows her parents will insist on a family dinner, even though all Moira wants to do is hang out with Ronnie or hit the beach or lock herself in her room. Or sleep. Jetlag’s gonna hit soon, and it ain’t gonna be pretty.

“Moira!” her mother calls from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready!”

Sigh. Sleep will have to wait, then.