View from the Beach

by JH Fletcher

  I wonder what it would be like to live like this always.

  The words formed themselves on her tongue but she did not utter them. It was because they met so rarely that they found each other so satisfying. Permanent domesticity, she thought. Who needed it? It would bore them both to death.

  During the evening they sprawled on the sofa and watched a couple of videos, for all the world like the married couple they had no plans to be. They went to bed early and awoke to the knowledge that after lunch they would say their goodbyes.

  Until the next time. If next time there proved to be.

  On the flight to Adelaide Roberta looked out of the plane window. It was dark. Her reflection was superimposed against a blackness broken by the occasional gleam of distant lights. She thought of the weekend that had passed and her relationship with Donald Guthrie.

  It was a relationship flawed by time, distance and other obligations but there was tenderness and understanding and for her that was enough. Love, too, perhaps. A lot of people would dismiss it, calling it meaningless, unsatisfactory, but for Roberta it had both meaning and satisfaction. It was love or as near to love as she could come and at that moment, alone and vulnerable, it seemed to her that love was the only thing that stood between herself and the all-consuming night.

  She willed such thoughts behind her. She opened her briefcase. Time to get back to work.

  EIGHT

  After all, the sea was still there.

  Ruth drove her car along the last yards of rutted track, manoeuvred her way between the two huge bushes that guarded the rear entrance to her property and arrived at the house. When she switched off the engine she could hear the sea breaking along the beach. She got out of the car, crossed the lawn and climbed the flight of steps to the plank deck facing the sea. She leant her elbows on the wooden railing, breathed in the salt air and stared out at the vista before her.

  The sea, the starch-stiff grasses hissing in the wind, the bone-white brilliance of the sand dunes in the sunlight, the wide blue arch of the sky. Home.

  Ruth loved her house, its clean, economical lines, its shaded decks, its windows with views of the mile-long beach and the coast running north and south beyond it, but it was to its setting rather than the house itself that she returned, the countryside that was truly home.

  The house was easy to see but difficult to reach. Which suited Ruth well. People walking on the beach would see its spare white outline high up in the dunes and wonder who lived there, this place with no visible access.

  After the publicity about Joshua’s Children a lot of people had read about the famous author who lived among the dunes outside Port Matlock, but her house’s inaccessibility meant that she was seldom troubled by uninvited visitors. A high profile went with a novelist’s material success and there had been lots of phone calls but to these, particularly from the media reps who to begin with had phoned constantly for interviews, Ruth was not at home.

  ‘Ms Ballard? Trekking in the Andes, last I heard. No, I don’t know when she’ll be back. Who am I? Nobody. Her house-sitter, that’s all.’ And put down the phone.

  She had to have space, creativity required it, and solitude was part of that space. Now she drank in the air, the vast seascape, and her mind went back to what Dorrie had told her about that summer, a hundred years ago, when Dorrie and Lukas and Jamie had spent three months wandering along the beaches of the Mornington Peninsula. Lukas painting, Jamie exploring, Dorrie the naked, beautiful woman there for all three of them, all at one with the sand and sun and sea. Their last summer together, as it had proved. Dorrie had been dead forty years now, the others much longer; all the world came to it, yet their tragic story was as alive in Ruth’s mind as when Dorrie had first told it to her.

  ‘My turn next,’ she said to herself but could not be sure even of that. She hoped she was right. Not that she wanted to die, but there had been so much death in her life. She wanted no more of it.

  She clung to the rail, staring seaward, breathing the rich air until the oxygen made her dizzy. Always she had the fear that one day she would return to find things changed, a development of beach shacks raping her precious space, an oil rig off-shore, bulldozers scouring away the sand, the beauty. God knew, it happened. In nightmare she had even returned to find the sea itself vanished to leave nothing but mile upon mile of mud, a stinking brown desert littered with the half-sunken bones of animals and trees and men.

  Not this time, though. The sea was still there, and the beach. It was deserted, for some reason had never been popular with holiday-makers. After supper she would walk to the far headland — just herself and the sea, the prints of her bare feet in the sand at the water’s edge, a chain of footprints joining her to eternity. The tide would come in, the prints would vanish, yet in the structure of the obliterating sand they would remain as proof that she had once been here, that her being was etched as firmly into this place as the Narangga and other forerunners whose spirits were as much part of it as the sea and sand. All of us here, she thought. Continuity. Please let it not disappear. Not in my time. It was a selfish prayer, she did not even know to whom she addressed it, but felt it fervently for all that.

  She fetched her suitcase from the boot of the car, went into the house. She opened the windows to let the sea wind wash through. She sorted through the stack of mail that she had fetched from the post office in Port Matlock. There must have been well over a hundred envelopes. The inevitable bills, of course, letters from her agent, proposals for lecture tours she would never make, articles and features she would never write but the majority would be from her readers. She could never get over how many of those who read her novels chose to write to her about them, about themselves. There was the occasional abusive letter, she had been propositioned more than once, had even received letters of startling obscenity (she handed those to the police), there was always someone hoping for a handout, but the majority were good letters. People who had obtained comfort from her writing, even a measure of enlightenment, an infusion of strength to help them face their lives. People with sorrows, fears, hopes.

  She answered them all. It took hours of her time and her agent had scolded her for doing it but these were her public, the people who provided her with her living. They had taken the trouble to write to her; the least she could do was answer them.

  She took the pile of letters through to her study. It was a large plain room, painted white, with bookshelves over two of the walls. A good example of Lukas Smart’s early work (inherited from Dorrie) hung alone on the third. The fourth consisted mainly of glass, a vast picture window looking out to the sea. There was a side table and in one corner, surface bare as always when not in use, her desk. It, too, was large and white, a copy of one designed by Francis Bacon for Patrick White. Ruth passionately admired White’s work, had disliked the man, but acknowledged him as the only Australian writer of real significance. There were some who would have disputed this, putting forward Ruth’s own claim. There had even been talk of a Nobel for her, too, but she discounted that. Reason said she was too old but dreams had nothing to do with reason. History would either enshrine or bury her. It was probably her best chance of enduring fame; her work had always been too popular for the elitist tastes of the more precious members of the literary establishment. Art for the few was a view she would never share. Art was for the many, the more the merrier. A wide readership was no guarantee of quality, God knew, but the converse was not true, either.

  She put the letters in a neat pile on the table; she would look at them in the morning.

  There was an old fisherman who lived beyond the headland in a little shack whose seaward-facing wall was, at very high tides, washed by the sea. Later that evening Ruth walked along the beach to buy fish. The sea formed its scallop-shaped patterns of foam on the sand; above the horizon the sunset’s afterglow lingered. She bought some snapper, strolled home again. She barbecued the fish on a fire of driftwood on the beach. The stars burned overhead, the sea hissed and groan
ed against the land, a gentle breeze kept the mosquitoes away. Ruth drank whisky and ate fish and later, when she was tired, doused the glowing coals with sand, went back up the dunes to the house and fell into bed with the smell and sound of the sea coming to her through the open window.

  I am home, she thought drowsily. In the place I love. I still have my wits, I can still run the length of the beach if I want to, I have more than a lifetime of work in front of me, some of which I shall never live to accomplish. I am a truly lucky, truly happy woman.

  She fell asleep.

  The next day, as she had expected, Roberta phoned.

  ‘I wanted to be sure you got home safely.’

  Ruth could never be sure whether Roberta’s habit of checking up on her stemmed from genuine concern or from the innate sense of bossiness that was so much part of her character.

  ‘Quite safely, thank you.’

  ‘I thought you were going straight home from the airport.’

  ‘I did say so. But when I got to Mindowie I felt so tired that I decided to stay over.’

  ‘For three days.’

  Enough.

  ‘My dear, I’m still capable of deciding for myself what I want to do.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Did you really phone to find out how I was,’ Ruth asked mildly, ‘or to have a row?’

  ‘I want to come and see you.’

  Ruth suppressed a sigh; she had looked forward to being alone for a few more days, at least, but it was her own fault for fobbing off Roberta at the airport. And it was she who had suggested lunch, after all. She should have known her daughter would never let her forget it.

  ‘That will be very nice, dear. Perhaps you’d like to make it on Saturday. I can probably organise some fresh fish for us.’

  Roberta came at twelve o’clock. Ruth had changed her mind about the fish. Instead they would have a free-range chook that she had bought from her butcher in Port Matlock. She would roast it with home-made stuffing and plenty of vegetables. It was a cool day, a mixture of sun and cloud, and the windows of the house were partially closed against the chilly wind. The house was full of the appetising smell of cooking.

  Roberta sniffed appreciatively. ‘It doesn’t matter how often I come here,’ she said, ‘I never get used to the idea of your being so domesticated.’

  ‘I’ve cooked for myself for over fifty years. And for you and Boyd. And both your fathers. I don’t see why it should be so surprising that I’m house-trained.’

  ‘But you’re an intellectual.’

  ‘I would certainly never call myself that.’

  They took their drinks and went outside. Ruth had arranged for a plate glass panel to be built into the railing on the seaward side of the deck to provide a corner sheltered from the wind. She had a small table, a couple of easy chairs, and they sat there now, sipping their drinks and enjoying the view while they waited for the chicken to finish cooking.

  ‘People who win the Booker Prize are not normally regarded as stupid,’ Roberta said.

  ‘I never said I was. But intelligent is not the same as intellectual.’

  Ruth knew that Roberta had not driven all this way just for the pleasure of her mother’s company; knew too that she would come to the point only when she was ready.

  ‘I’ve sat here in a full storm,’ Ruth said. ‘I remember a westerly gale that blew for two days. It was like being part of the sea. Afterwards there were whole rafts of seaweed washed up on the beach. There was even some on the lawn, yet I sat out here through it all and never got a drop on me.’

  The idea of her mother, at her age, living in this remote place of sea and sand and wild storms seemed to Roberta utterly bizarre. ‘I’d be a lot happier if you were nearer Adelaide.’

  Ruth smiled. ‘I know, dear. But here I’m free and in the city I’d feel shut up in a box.’

  ‘At least I’d be able to keep an eye on you.’

  Which was exactly what Ruth did not want. ‘I’m grateful, dear. I truly am. But I’m happy here. I think I’ll stay put for the time being.’

  ‘You really are the most stubborn of women.’ But smiled, no sting in the words.

  ‘I know, dear. You must get it from me.’

  Roberta knew better than to ask her mother her plans for the next book; Ruth had never been willing to discuss such things. Instead, over lunch she led the conversation to domestic matters: the difficulty Ruth was having in persuading her precious plants to flourish in the salt-laden air, the fact that, despite numerous hints and nudges from her family, she had still not put in a swimming pool.

  ‘It would be the making of the place.’

  Ruth sighed. Her daughter would forever regard as wasted a day in which she was not scheming to change things that needed no change. ‘Perhaps I like it the way it is,’ she suggested.

  ‘But you enjoy swimming. A pool would make your life so much easier.’

  Through the dining room window they could see the sun glinting on the silver and indigo waters of the gulf. Ruth gestured towards it. ‘I have the biggest swimming pool in the world right there. What do I want with another one?’

  ‘Other people use the beach. You’re always going on about your privacy.’

  ‘I usually swim first thing. There’s no one about then.’

  ‘It would increase the value of the property.’

  Ruth smiled. ‘Since I’m not planning to sell that doesn’t matter, does it?’

  Over the home-made apple tart Roberta said, ‘I wonder if I can ask you a favour.’

  At last. Ruth suppressed a sigh of relief. It was always a strain, waiting for Roberta to get to the point.

  ‘There’s an election coming.’

  ‘Is there?’ Even for her daughter’s sake Ruth had never been able to summon an interest in politics.

  ‘Which we shall probably lose.’

  ‘I suppose as long as you hang on to your own seat …’

  ‘I may have a battle on my hands even to do that,’ and explained about the Maltby affair and what had happened between the Premier and herself.

  To Ruth it sounded terrible. She could not understand how rational people could choose to immerse themselves in such a sink. ‘I need to build up my image with the voters. They think of me as efficient but not sufficiently caring.’ Roberta smiled cynically. ‘I’m an administrator when what they really want is a mother hen.’

  Ruth was puzzled, unsure where Roberta’s comments were leading. Surely her public image was something she would have to sort out herself? She could appreciate the voters’ point of view. She knew Roberta better than most and had never thought of her as particularly caring. Surely the way to change her image was to change her ways. If for some reason she couldn’t do that, her party presumably employed publicists to take care of such things.

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.’

  ‘I want you to write an article about me. A series of articles, if you can manage it. Showing my domestic side. My Daughter And Her Dream: that sort of thing. A candid camera portrait, if you like.’

  Or not so candid.

  ‘Would anybody read it?’

  ‘Mother, you’re famous. Of course people will read it.’

  ‘Your domestic side,’ Ruth repeated. ‘I don’t know anything about your domestic side.’

  ‘I meant my childhood. You and Daddy. The three of us as a family. That’s what I need,’ she explained. ‘To demonstrate the human side.’

  Ruth found she disliked the idea passionately. Even so, she fought to avoid an outright refusal. ‘You must have a dozen people who can do that sort of thing so much better than I can.’

  ‘None with your name.’ She stared at her mother, calculation in her eyes. ‘Unless you’d let them put your name to what they write?’

  ‘I certainly would not!’ Even the suggestion shocked.

  ‘That’s fine. It’s you I want, no substitutes.’ Smiling encouragingly. ‘We’ll make a great team.’

&nb
sp; Ruth was angry at being placed in such a position. She had tried to avoid a straight refusal but now it seemed the only option. ‘I don’t think I can help you.’

  Roberta’s smile vanished. ‘You won’t do it?’

  ‘Your father was very dear to me.’

  I would not be prepared to prostitute his memory. Somehow she managed to avoid saying it.

  Roberta’s lips were bloodless. ‘I think it’s the only time I’ve asked you for anything in my life.’

  Ruth had never been susceptible to blackmail, emotional or otherwise. ‘Then it’s a pity it’s something I can’t give.’

  ‘Not can’t. Won’t.’ Roberta turned her head, staring out of the window at the sea as though daring it to fight her, too. ‘You’ve never lifted a finger to help me.’

  Nor would Ruth be moved by self-pitying rubbish like that. ‘I would do it for you if it was possible. But it isn’t.’

  ‘Your feelings for Daddy are so tender. It took you long enough to marry him.’

  Roberta was definitely looking for a row. But it takes two to row and Ruth was not willing to participate.

  She stood up. ‘I shall stack the dishes in the dishwasher. Then I shall go for a walk on the beach. You’re welcome to come with me, if you would like to.’

  ‘Are you sure you want me?’

  It was always a problem, seeing in place of the determined eyes and hectoring jaw the child’s face that to Ruth was as real as the adult face that had replaced it. More real, perhaps. Because Roberta was her child she was willing to make one more effort to win her over. ‘I get such pleasure from your coming here, our being together. Even when we don’t see eye to eye.’ She even managed a small laugh. ‘Why should we? I’m a bossy boots, always have been, and you’re no better.’ She took her daughter’s hand in her own. ‘Come for a walk with me, Roberta. Let the wind blow our hair off.’