by Susan Duncan
'What's the dog's name?'
'Bosun.'
'He's beautiful.'
'Yeah. He's a good dog.'
'No sign of the truck?'
'No. Not yet.'
'Don't know where they've got to. I left about half an hour after them.'
'Might be lost.'
Less charitably, I figure they're pushing the number of hours to do the job as high as they can. 'Could be. So you put everything on this barge?'
'Uh-huh.'
It's long and flat. Cracked with random holes in the deck. Looks like an overcooked biscuit. There are no side rails. Nothing to stop everything falling off.
'Ah, how does all the stuff stay on?'
Andrew grins. 'Don't worry, we haven't lost anything yet.'
'Oh. Good.'
There's no sign of the truck and it's nearly lunchtime.
'I'll just park and get a sandwich. Can I dump the stuff from the car with you now?'
'No worries.'
'Anybody want anything to eat?'
The boys shake their heads.
Andrew looks at his watch. 'Those blokes know where to come, don't they?'
'Yeah, I gave them all the landmarks. Drew a map.'
'Bit worried about the tide, that's all. If it gets much later, by the time we load and get there, it'll be low tide. Makes the job a lot harder.'
'How much leeway have we got?'
'From now? About half an hour.'
'Even if they're later, we'll still be able to unload, right?'
'Yeah. But it means a lot of lifting. Much trickier.'
Shit. Where are those blokes?
Half an hour later they casually roll onto Cargo Wharf, hands filled with sandwiches. Passively aggressive. They throw open the doors of the truck and settle to eat, and watch the Pittwater boys do the work.
Andrew shrugs. Jumps lightly into the truck. Starts work. Polite. Laidback. No drama. The city men are shamed, look sheepish. Bolt their food and pitch in. Hard to hold on to the upper hand when there's no contest.
Sofas, a couple of armchairs, a couple of tables, dining room chairs, sideboard, coffee table and two beds. Four lamps. Paintings. Books. Clothes. Kitchen equipment and crockery. Minimum of bed linen and towels.Tubs of Iceberg roses and herbs. That's it. I still have too much kitchen stuff but some things will never change. No dog. No kennel. Slam the door shut on that one. No tears please.
It all gets piled onto the barge which has old tyres tied around the sides like bows on a banquet table. My belongings are layered and braced against each other. Hard to believe it will all stay steady. Nothing is tied. The boys ride the rock and roll of the barge like horsemen.
'Can I get a lift to the house with you guys?'
'Yeah, sure. Climb on.'
'Where's the engine? How do you steer this thing?'
Andrew points at a battered old tinny, which is what aluminium dinghies are called in this part of the world. It's tied alongside and he jumps into it. Light as a dancer. The boat barely shifts balance.
'The tinny does the steering by pushing the barge.'
He yanks the engine cord. After a couple of coughs it kicks into life. The Sydney blokes lean against the truck, ankles crossed, and watch. They're waiting for disaster.
We pull slowly away from the wharf. That tiny little tinny with its twenty-five horsepower, two stroke motor carefully pilots us to Scotland Island. We ride the wakes from passing boats and not a stick of furniture moves. Only the skirt of one of the sofas gets a little damp when water slops over the side. Who cares?
'Can there be a better way to travel?'
Paul laughs. 'I haven't lived here too long,' he says, 'but I don't think I'll ever leave.'
We dock about five feet from the front door.
'If we'd caught the tide at exactly the right time, we'd just slide stuff off the barge onto the deck and into the house,' Andrew says.
The drop from the jetty and deck to the barge is now about two feet. Doesn't sound like much, but when you're lifting heavy furniture from an unstable base, any advantage counts.
'What a bugger.'
He smiles. 'It's not too bad. Would have been worse in another hour.'
Doesn't anyone whinge around here?
The empty house smells of wood and polished floorboards.And the sea. Dust motes frolic in shards of sunlight. Nothing is locked. I've been given keys but they don't work anyway. I throw open all the doors and look up McCarrs Creek, across to Elvina Bay. Church Point is a good swim away. Water traffic buzzes by. Tinnies. Cabin cruisers. A beautiful wooden rowboat with a man in a wide brimmed hat. And silent yachts under sail in a light breeze.
A tight little band of anxiety loosens around my chest. It's too beautiful, too bloody exquisite not to feel a touch of joy. Sweetie would have loved it. Bad timing, old girl. But when is death ever good timing?
'Where do you want the pot plants?'
Paul is holding the rosemary. Looking around, there is only deck space. The ultimate waterfront house.
'Put it alongside the bedroom. Full sun, there.'
'So what do you reckon? Is rosemary the top herb? Or would you go for basil?' he asks.
Paul envies me the rosemary. Explains he's a passionate cook. There's not enough sun to grow rosemary successfully where he lives on the north side of Elvina in an old sandstone boatshed.
'The thing about rosemary is that it can be delicate or strong,' he continues. 'It's good dried or fresh. A leg of lamb without rosemary is almost naked. A bit of a waste. And it doesn't have seasons. Basil is strictly summer.'
'Not true! Just because basil is a summer crop doesn't mean you can't freeze it and put it in sauces and dressings, in curries and stews.'
'On a boat, I reckon curry's the go,' Andrew says, lining up the sofas perfectly. Chris piles boxes in the middle of the floor.
The brothers stand next to each and look at the barge, the falling tide. 'Better move her. She'll be aground soon.' They walk lightly out the front door.
'Curry isn't a herb! It's a whole lot of spices,' Paul calls after them.
The last few boxes and a bed are carried up the steps from the end of the jetty. Where my own tinny might go one day. If I buy one. If I stay.
The final box joins the stack inside. A weekend of unpacking lies ahead. Oh happy days. Not.
'I've put cold beers in the fridge. How about it?'
'That'd go down ok.'
The boys sit on the jetty. Legs hanging over. Feet above the water. The bay picks up the pink of a sunset sky and life feels soft.
'So you boys do this all the time?'
'Nope.' They all say it at once.
Andrew and Chris like to sail.
'See that black boat over there? The ketch?' Andrew asks, pointing with his finger.
I turn around, look south. I have no idea what a ketch is but there's only one black boat. 'Yeah. Got it.'
'I'm restoring it.' Andrew turns and faces north west again. Sunlight fills his face. 'Then I'm going to sail it. Maybe around the islands. Maybe around the world one day.' Chris has the same dream.
'Moving business is a way to get the money together.'
Paul is qualified to skipper a water taxi, a ferry, and a charter yacht. 'Not sure what I really want to do yet. I'm looking around. Testing a few things. So what brought you here?' he adds.
'Felt like a change.'
'Helluva change.'
'Yeah, well sometimes you need a helluva change. Might buy a house here. If all goes well. Not sure yet. See how I go.'
'If you last two years here, you hang on for life,' Andrew says.
'That's the golden rule, is it? I've heard someone say that before.'
'I move people in, I move people out. Some hate it from day one, can't cop boats, weather, rough days. Others settle here so easily, it'd take a bomb to shift them.' Andrew finishes his beer. Gets up.
'Another beer?'
'No thanks. Gotta get going.'
'Can you pick the
ones who will last?'
'Mostly.'
'I'm here for the long term.That's the plan.'
'Wait and see.'
Chris, the quiet one, stands alongside his brother. 'You never know how it's gonna go. Wait and see,' he says.
Paul hesitates over another beer, then declines. He'll be stranded or have to take the ferry from Bells Wharf if he stays on.
I watch them walk down the jetty. Andrew whistles to Bosun, who appears out of nowhere and gallops after him. A floppy, looselipped, doggy kind of smile all over his happy face. The boys untie and cast off. Chris pushes the barge away from the jetty with a foot and then leaps for the deck. No chance he will miss. He stands as though there's an invisible yarn knitting water, barge and man into a single unit.
It's dark enough to turn on lights in the house. But I hesitate. Don't want to disrupt the outside light. The softness. The rosy satin smoothness of a day that doesn't seem quite as terrible as it was earlier.
I leave the bedroom doors open on my first night in the little boatshed bedroom alongside the main house, the floor only inches higher than the water when the tide is in. From my bed, I see stars in a black sky. And a few lights. An insomniac perhaps, or a forgotten porch light, somewhere along McCarrs Creek.
There's a wondrous peace without the absolute emptiness a city needs to be quiet. I cannot sleep, though. And counting stars doesn't help. I throw back the doona and wander out to the edge of the silvery deck. There are no handrails here and the tide is out, exposing a little beach about eight feet below, sharp with rocks and broken oyster shells. Don't leap into the water before checking first, a little inner voice cautions.
It is a cold bright night, but the chill is clean so I sit at the end of the jetty where the bottom steps, exposed by the low tide, are covered in green slime. Watch out for those. Could slip and crack your head open in a flash, the voice continues.
What am I looking for, I ask myself? What can I do to ensure this change is different from all the others? Can the angry-faced jeering little monkey in my head – or 'noodle', as my Uncle Frank would say – be silenced?
You? Change? You can't do it! And what's the point? Death is inevitable. It's too late to make the big changes now. You're too old! Too tired!
When the cold is intolerable, I shuffle back to bed, my pyjamas smelling as salty as the sea. Much later, when I am still awake and raw with thoughts of Sweetie, water flip-flops like the sound of loose sandals. I understand already that the tide is lapping in again.
Dampness rolls off the sea and settles on the doona, pillows and bedside table like a layer of sweat. Just before dawn, when the light is still grey and the water flat as a table, I fall asleep.
Sharp knocking wakes me. It's a blinding blue day.
'Susan, is it?'
I lift my head and look at a cheery, open face, blonde hair hanging to her shoulders, a couple of kids leaning on either side of her, gathered into her skirt. They are standing on the deck outside my bedroom, beaming politely, not quite leaning into the bedroom, but almost.
'They told you this is public land, didn't they? That's it's a public thoroughfare?'
I struggle to get a grip on consciousness. I am in bed. Having a conversation with a total stranger. Who knows my name.
'It's the only way to get to the ferry at Bells Wharf from our house,' she adds.
'Oh.'
'Well, see ya, then. Thanks a lot.'
I fall back on the pillows. The whole of Scotland Island can, if it wants, wander past my bedroom doors – French doors, mostly glass. Jeez. Bugger. Typical bloody Pittwater. There's always a twist. Wonder briefly if this means I have to make the bed every day.
Get up. Open a can of Coke. Begin unpacking. Find the box marked 'Kitchen Essentials'. Pull out knives and forks and a chopping board. Two plates, two mugs. Jar of loose tea. Frying pan. Olive oil. Spatula. Toaster. Kettle. Yep, you get good at moving when you do it often enough. What's with the two of everything, though? Old habits? Hope? Put on the kettle. Bung some bread into the toaster. Find butter and Vegemite in the fridge. Feels like home to me.
Lunchtime and I'm still in pyjamas. Everything is in place. Have discovered a fantastic, huge cupboard big enough to turn into an office if I want to. Fabulous shelving, like a boat. Maybe I'll start a new project. Write a book.
There's a loft area, too, with a bunk bed. I remember vaguely that the real estate agent called it a third bedroom. Yeah, right.
Toeholds cut into the wall for ascent and descent. No good to anyone except twelve year olds and orang-utans.
I set up the ironing board where I can look at the passing parade of boats. I feel invisible, as you do when you are inside and everyone else is outside. But occasionally someone waves from his tinny as he passes. I return the salute and feel a bit like a fish in an aquarium. Conclude the only real privacy is the upstairs bedroom.
A man wearing blue jeans and an old white business shirt rows closer and closer. When he reaches the deck that embraces the front and sides of the house, about eight feet from where I'm ironing, he waves and I open the window because I don't want to go outside in my pyjamas.
'Heard you'd moved in.' His hat is askew. Grey hair flowing.
I know him from dinner parties at Towlers Bay.
'Yeah. Yesterday. How you doing?'
'Saw you ironing.' He holds the edge of the deck to stop the boat from drifting away.
'Uh-huh.'
'Lovely sight, a woman ironing. Makes me nostalgic. Don't see it often, any more.'
He looks comfortable. As though it's the most natural thing in the world to pull up in a rowboat and talk to a woman through a window while she's doing her ironing in her pyjamas. He looks settled, as though he plans to stay awhile.
'Want a cup of tea?'
'Lovely. Got a biscuit to go with it?'
He stays in the boat and I pass him tea and a slice of toast. With jam.
'Haven't got any biscuits.You ok with the toast?'
'Wonderful.'
The day is sunny and warm. He pulls off his hat and closes his eyes, raising his face to the sun. So many people do that here. As though it's life-giving.
And we talk for a while, about sea eagles and fishing, and the day feels full.
9
HOW TO DESCRIBE MY FIRST Monday morning as a commuting resident of Scotland Island? Picking around the crumpled shoreline in air tangy with brine and the weedy smell of wet sand. Hills gum leaf green and feathered with mist. The serenity of a soughing sea. Waiting in the crooked wooden shelter shed at the end of Bells Wharf for the ferry. Watching the fuzzy dawn world sharpen with the rising light. It is a caress of the senses. It feels like a prayer.
Within a week, my routine is established. Rise at 6.15 am, make tea and toast, shower, dress and walk to Bells Wharf to catch the older of the two ferries, the Curlew, on her 6.50 am run.
At high tide, when water slops over the goat track that leads from the house to Bells Wharf, I put on rubber boots. Eventually, I learn to leave a pair of office shoes in the car.
There's a dog gate at the start of the jetty. I am told it must be firmly closed at all times. 'Dogs love ferries,' someone explains. 'Ride 'em all day if they can. It's a bugger, though, if they jump off in one of the bays. Means you've gotta go and pick 'em up after work.'
Every morning, though, hopeful dogs hippetty-hop after their owners.
'No, you can't come, mate. Not today. It's a work day,' they explain, resisting the pleading eyes of mutts who are used to being part of the action.
'They're persistent, aren't they?' says one bloke who sends his brindle mutt home every morning, Monday to Friday. 'She reckons I might forget one day and let her come.'
I laugh.
'Pleading eyes get to you, though,' he adds. 'So she might be right.'
It is amazing, at first, to see that Lenny, the early morning ferry driver, is greeted like a close family member by commuters, although he never says much. Only gidday if you insist.
Some mornings, if a regular is missing, Lenny looks up the stairway that climbs in terraces nearly to the top of the island. If Bob or Bill or Maude or Mavis is in sight, he holds the ferry. An extra moment or two on the water, the same kind of moment that on the road makes drivers foam at the mouth, costs nothing here.
Lenny has been at the helm of the old Curlew – a beautiful, low-tummied, navy and white wooden ferry built in the 1920s – for the past thirty years. He's a little bloke with big, work-cracked hands and a weather-beaten face that looks sour a lot of the time. But he's soft as a fresh lemon cake under the crust and has never been known to turn his back to avoid doing a favour. On Pittwater, he is a legend. He is in his late sixties when I first start taking the ferry and he moves around the vessel as though he is part of the deck. If you need him earlier than the scheduled first run, you let him know and he's there. Doesn't matter whether it's still the dead of night.
Many friendships, which begin easily here anyway, are initiated on the ferry. Over-riding the casual friendliness, though, is a cast iron respect for privacy. Gossip, the kind that picks away until it creates a sore, is an absolute no-no. It's ok to look through a window by mistake, but don't talk about what you see. Live and let live prevails here.
When the sun shines and we passengers sit in the open air on the rear deck, a simple 'Good morning' turns into an exchange of local information. For me, on those early trips, it is about garbage collection days, how to get newspapers delivered, where to find someone to clean the roof and gutters – essential when you gather water from the rain run-off for your tanks. There is the same relaxed familiarity as in a small country town, and like a country town, we are all bonded by location. Eventually you meet everyone.
The ferry ride takes about five minutes and at Church Point, commuters scatter in all directions. Some catch a connecting bus to the city, some car pool. Some walk to the public car park and drive to work, which is what I do. Church Point is like a town square in an old village. It's our piazza, if you like. The hub or nerve centre of our offshore neighbourhood. Just to arrive here is to be enfolded in the warmth of a vibrant community, to feel as though you belong somewhere.
There are a few tables with bench seats, a scattering of shade trees and a bottle shop. A noticeboard flutters with announcements for everything from home help to having a dock sale (no garages here!). Significant community events are chalked up on a nearby blackboard – events such as the Scotland Island Fair, the ANZAC Day ceremony, the Scotland Island Players' new theatrical production, the local yacht club's upcoming series and an occasional wake if money needs to be raised to pay for the funeral.
