And almost immediately all the money worries receded. They got back into their cages, into a controllable space where I could take them out, have a think about them, and put them away again. They weren’t howling dogs running out of control through the house any more. They had their kennels, and I had the key.
twelve
storming the battlement
One of the differences that emerged in our choice of destinations was that Lucy preferred places with people and I preferred places with trees. Haberfield and Lakemba had been her choices, Manly and La Perouse mine. It’s because she grew up in Sydney and I didn’t.
Generally those who grew up in big cities have great difficulty believing that living, or even being, anywhere other than in a big city can be anything else but a monotonous hell. This attitude extends even to parts of the city they live in that don’t look like a city, like the little bits of bush we found in Manly and La Perouse.
‘But what do you do there?’ they say.
‘You just relax, look about.’
‘But why?’
‘Because it’s nice.’
‘Why?’
‘It just is.’
‘But is there a café? With real coffee?’
The only places that people who grew up in a big city want to move to are bigger cities. Sydneysiders want to move to London or New York, Melbournians want to move to Sydney and Ade-laideans want to move to Sydney, Melbourne or Dubbo (Dubbo isn’t actually bigger than Adelaide, it just has more of a buzz).
While an Adelaidean moving to Sydney is farewelled like a brave hero going off to war (mothers fear the worst and cry, friends envy their courage and hate themselves for staying home), a Sydneysider who moves to Adelaide will slink out of town as anonymously as possible. In the months leading up to their departure, friends will avoid the subject in the same embarrassed way that lawyers avoid mentioning property in front of their one colleague who is renting, and behind the departee’s back will shake their heads sympathetically and share an understanding that this is a person who just couldn’t quite cut it in the big smoke. Those who remain have, by implication, their belief that they can cut it reinforced. It makes them feel better.
This is the case even if the reason the person is moving from Sydney to Adelaide is because they got promoted from filing clerk to head of a multinational company whose head office is in Adelaide (as unlikely as that sounds). The reason for the move isn’t important; it’s the geographical fact of it that signifies social doom.
It’s not a phenomenon peculiar to Australia. I know of a New Yorker who was walking along Bondi Beach (and Sydney is to New York what Adelaide is to Sydney) who said, ‘So what is this lifestyle thing everyone keeps talking about?’ His companion silently opened his arms out to the waves and the sand.
If you ask a big-city dweller if they would ever consider leaving the city they always bluff you with something like: ‘But there’s so much to do here . . . the restaurants and the theatres . . . And you can go to the beach whenever you like.’
Ask them when they last went to the beach or the theatre.
‘Well, not for a while, but see, the point is that I know I could whenever I wanted.’
The truth is that they are city people, they have always been city people and for them living anywhere else would be weird and scary. They love feeling sophisticated and urbane in the same way that people who live up the coast love feeling relaxed and warm, and people who live in the country love feeling straightforward and knowledgeable about the weather. It’s a good system. Everyone feels superior in some way. Except those who live in Adelaide.
I’ve lived in Sydney for eighteen years and have, therefore, been largely socialised into believing what the natives believe, that Sydney is superior. But there is still a small non-Sydney part of my mind fighting for survival, desperately trying to make me believe that one day I will move up the coast and live five minutes from work and two minutes from the beach and know everyone in town and that everyone in town will be interesting even though they don’t live in the city.
I had realised that Lucy and I had different attitudes to the city three years earlier when she visited New York to see her sister. When she’d asked me if I wanted to go I’d said that the last place I wanted to go when I was on holiday was one of the biggest cities in the world.
When she returned I arranged a ‘let’s get to know each other again’ walk from the Spit Bridge to Manly, a wonderful three- or four-hour walk around the harbour that keeps emerging from bush at spectacular lookouts. We were looking back over the sail-filled harbour toward the city, the Opera House and the bridge, at one of the most spectacular views, surely, in the world when Lucy said, ‘You know, I really miss New York.’
Vive la différence. The only way, I think, that I’ll ever be able to get her to want to live anywhere else in Australia but Sydney is to find a hypnotherapist who works.
So the Garigal National Park was obviously my choice. It’s halfway up the North Shore and runs either side of Middle Harbour Creek, a body of water that eventually widens to become Middle Harbour and then, after it has run under the Spit Bridge, Sydney Harbour.
There were at least three reasons Lucy was in a bad mood when we got there. One was that she wasn’t particularly excited about our destination. Another was that she hadn’t been impressed in the car when I had pointed out, with not much tact at all, that I thought she was a shithouse navigator whose efforts were on a motivational par with mine when I gardened for Mrs Marshall. The third reason she was in a bad mood was that I had deprived her of coffee.
Lucy had wanted to stop for a coffee on the way, but (a) I was conscious that we only had five hours to get there, have a look and get me back to work; (b) I resented the fact that having an instant coffee at home before we left wasn’t good enough for her (although, as an ex-addict, I knew full well how much better the real stuff was); and (c), most importantly, I resented the fact that I had gone through all the pain of giving up and she hadn’t.
Rather than say any of this I used delaying tactics, trying not to drive past any coffee shops, and then if she did spot one playing dumb.
‘There’s one.’
‘Where?’
‘There.’
‘There?’
‘No. There!’
‘Where? Oh, there . . . Is there somewhere to park?’
‘Yes. On the right.’
‘Where?’
‘There.’
‘Where?’
‘There!’
‘There? Oh there. Missed it. Sorry. Next one.’
This worked until we turned off Archbold Road (just before it lost its identity and became the romantic sounding Eastern Arterial Road) into East Lindfield and then it was too late. No more shops and no time to go back. As Lucy gradually became aware of this, she gradually got the shits. (Having just re-read this, I think I might be a selfish bastard. Imagine what I’d think if I read her version.)
Here, in fact, is Lucy’s version: ‘I thought it would be nice to have a walk in the bush, but even nicer to have a fortifying cup of coffee just to get a burst of energy beforehand. Bibi hadn’t slept much the night before so I needed a bit of a boost. James was playing dumb whenever we passed a café because he didn’t want to stop. On balance was he a selfish bastard? The answer is yes.’
So the motion is carried two votes to nil.
East Lindfield is a leafy, well kept North Shore suburb that looks as if no one between the ages of eighteen and 40 lives in it. There are trees in every backyard and most front ones, the houses are big and affluent, and the only noise comes from birds. It feels safe, but also ‘quiet, too quiet’. The streets are empty during the day, and I doubt if it gets any busier at night. People rarely leave the house except by car. It’s the downside of there being lots of space; everything is further away.
Several streets back onto the national park and our street directory suggested that off one, Ormonde Road (a tiny cul-de-sac, not really a road at
all), a track led to the creek. When we arrived, however, there was a sign: ‘Walking track is between 48 and 52 Carlyle Street’.
The track must have saved up and moved to a bigger block.
A bit more winding around and we arrived at a park the size of a vacant block between 48 and 52 Carlyle Street. A sign announced it as Seven Little Australians Park, which looked to be about the most it could have held.
We dismounted and loaded up or, as they say these days, got out of the car and got all our stuff. A track wide enough so I didn’t have to worry about whipping branches out of my way and into Bibi’s face led off from the back of the park. It turned right to run along the backs of houses while a dry, tree-filled gully fell away to our left.
We were walking downhill but I didn’t notice. When you’re walking downhill you don’t. You just think you’re walking. It’s only later when you have to come back up that you realise how downhill it must have been on the way there.
It was boiling hot, well over 30 degrees, which gave us an excuse not to talk. Even without words Lucy radiated the shits. It wasn’t just that she hadn’t had her coffee, it was more that she realised that I had deprived her of it. She has the ability,without words or actions, to somehow project such an ‘I’ve got the shits’ aura that it prompts tip-toeing and whispers from anyone within a hundred metres. (Bibi excepted. She was outside both the intent and the effect of it. ) Luckily she only unleashes the aura onto me when I deserve it. In fact I may well be the only person she ever unleashes it onto, because I think I’m the only person who ever gives her the shits. Whereas I’m far more balanced. Lots of people give me the shits.
The track wound down the hill and the bush got denser. After ten minutes we arrived at a thin little creek that didn’t look like it could ever get big enough to become a river, let alone a harbour. Not that the water was going anywhere. I threw a little bark boat in to amuse Bibi and it hung around as if tied to a buoy. A wooden bridge led us over it, then we turned left and followed the creek in the direction we thought was probably downstream. The trees closed in, and the shade kept us not exactly cool, but slightly less boiling.
But just as the boy becomes a man, the foal becomes the horse and the demolished rubble next door will hopefully soon become a completed house, within five minutes that muddy little creek had joined and become a big bold river 50 metres wide. The track had headed inland so at first we only caught glimpses of it, but then it emerged 20 metres above the bank. We were high enough to see a mile or two upstream. It was another big beautiful view.
Across the other side was bush broken by a picnic ground, fishing spots, a roped-off swimming area and one of those pseudo river beaches. Tragically, no swimming spot on our side. In fact we couldn’t even get down to the water, thick brush and swampy mud barring our way.
The track cut into the river’s steep bank and swung right and south toward the harbour. I kept up as good a pace as I could to try and get out of the aura’s range. Projecting it seemed to drain Lucy’s energy and she fell back. After ten minutes of pure river and bush view we rounded a point. Ahead the river widened and stretched forward, on either side scrub rose steeply to surrounding hills and there, right in the middle of it all, was Warringah Road,whooshing cars over the river and up the other side. It looked incongruous in the same way one lone inner-city tree hanging onto life through cracked pavement and surrounded by concrete, metal spike fences and street signs does.
A bearded dragon sat up on the path and watched us approach. When Bibi and I were within a few steps it casually sauntered off the path into the scrub. No panic, it clearly knew that once off the path it was safe from us. A minute later we saw another, then another. Nine in a hundred metres, either scuttling across the track, or reluctantly moving from where they had been sunbaking as insurance in case we turned out to be out to get them.
Eventually the track came to, and went under the Roseville Bridge. The foundations, inevitably, were graffitied. ‘Stop the War!’ was scrawled in metre-high black letters. It was hardly going to make a big political impact tucked away like that. Still, the war did seem to have stopped so maybe it worked. Unless they were talking about a different war.
On the other side of the bridge was a park into which I collapsed and released Bibi. It was a lovely location and the walk had been just the right distance, but the tension between Lucy and me had taken the gloss off the morning, especially because a nagging guilt kept reminding me I had caused it. Half my brain was relaxed by the surroundings while the other half was going over what had happened and trying to work out if it all really was my fault. When Lucy arrived I set about building a bridge. I’ll spare you the details except to say that even selfish bastards can sometimes admit they are selfish bastards.
Then I explored a bit further downriver. A path from the park led around a corner and opened onto a beach. Still a river beach, but a long one, stretching far down toward the harbour, and with people lying on it as they do on a proper beach.
I backtracked and convinced Lucy it was worth the effort and soon we were all paddling in the shallows. Then we lay and lounged until eventually I offered to go back and bring the car around to the road I suspected was just above us. It wasn’t an entirely selfless gesture for, while the bridge had been built, it was still rickety.
I headed up some stone stairs and found that indeed there was a road above, then came back down to the river and headed back along the path, setting a cracking pace. The relaxed part of my brain took over completely. Walking was just enough of an activity for it not to feel any pressure to think about anything else. The idea of money or work or chores being at all worthy of thought seemed ridiculous. The fact that I was walking very fast on a very hot day was enough to create self-worth. Surely a man who could do that would find any other problem trifling by comparison. I spotted a distant fisherman over the river and, following the rule that the less densely people are crammed together the more friendly they are, shouted and waved. He didn’t hear or see, or if he did, ignored me because he thought I was weird. I strode on, confident of my ability to stride on, past the river, into the trees and then over the stationary tributary, heart beating faster, sweat dripping but pace unslackened. I felt disconnected from my everyday life, away from all its little hassles. I knew they still existed, but they seemed far away, and I more able to deal with them because hell, I was a man who could walk fast on a very hot day.
Then I hit the hill. The one I didn’t notice on the way down. The trees spread out, shade retreated and the sun beat down. It was steep, much steeper, surely, than before. Had there been a grader in, in the last hour? I heard a noise. A steam train? Around here? Surely not? No, it was my breathing. As my pace slowed, my breathing quickened. My striding became walking became trudging became shuffling. I felt weak. Spent. Hardly a man at all. I stopped. Shuffled on. Stopped. Staggered. Stopped. Eventually, painfully, I made it back to Seven Little Australians Park, collapsed into the car, started the engine and blasted the airconditioner. Nature: it’s good for a visit but I wouldn’t want to live there.
The street directory helped me work out where Lucy and Bibi were and I took off towards them. Five minutes later I was speeding over the bridge we had walked under, across to the other side of the river, thinking, This is wrong. Warringah Road is a fine multi-laned piece of road construction but unkind if you miss a turn-off. Ten minutes later I found a place to turn around and come back.
Eventually I got to the bottom of Babbage Road on the border of Roseville Chase (one of the few Sydney suburbs containing a verb) and Castle Cove and picked them up. We decided to follow Middle Harbour Creek on its journey toward Middle Harbour and so drove back up Babbage Road, turned left and wound our way along the point that is Castle Cove, the Australian suburb with the largest property price increase in 2003. The average median house price increased by 51 per cent in that year, from $950,000 to $1,439,000. Yikes.
It’s a finger surrounded by water. Middle Harbour Creek opening into Midd
le Harbour lies to its north and east, Castle Cove (the water not the suburb) to its south. From the water, dense bushland rises up a few hundred metres to the central ridge along which streets run.
It’s another church-quiet suburb full of big family houses with water views, or almost water views, and sloping backyards. Most look nice and comfortable, but a million and a half each? You’re not buying houses, you’re buying status, specifically being on the North Shore with either a view of the water or more likely a view of houses which have a view of the water. Being near bush would up the value, too, but as with the water you’re paying for view not use. It’s dense scrub on a near-cliff.
Bamp Place, a little cul-de-sac on the north side of the suburb, offers a huge view looking back up the river to where we were. We could see the park, the beach and the second half of our walk. And the Warringah Road bridge.
The downside of Castle Cove is the vertical back and front yards—like ours in Bondi only here they are bigger, more expensively landscaped and better maintained. At the end of the cul-de-sac a suited man was backing his car carefully and terribly slowly up his steep driveway. It took him three minutes with directions from his wife, and he still scraped the bottom.
We drove over to the south side of the peninsula and looked south to the next point just a few hundred metres across the water; it was the other Castle, Castlecrag. Why not?
It was a lot further than a few hundred metres to drive there, though. We had to go all the way back along the Castle Cove point, then south along the main road and back east into Castlecrag. Which was good because if they had put in bridges connecting the tips of each point it would have looked terrible.
Both of the castle suburbs have pretty much one road in and one out, so in case of attack from the poor the residents need only block up the one spot to make themselves safe until their tinned oysters, well-stocked wine cellars and deluxe pet food run out.
A Month of Sundays Page 12
