by Di Morrissey
‘What are you daydreaming about, Mum?’ Melanie carefully put down her surfboard, dropped to the sand and began drying her hair.
‘I was thinking how my life has changed since I came to The Bay.’
‘Yeah, it’s a fantastic place, like being on holiday all the time.’
‘It’s more than that. Much, much more.’
‘Like?’
‘Heavy stuff, Mel,’ she warned with a smile.
‘Test me. See if I faint.’
‘It’s about feeling I belong to a community, and knowing that a sense of community really matters and helps makes individual lives more meaningful. How’s that for starters?’ She passed the sunblock, then went on. ‘I’m still coming to grips with what it all means, but there you are.’
Melanie said with a smile, ‘Go on. I’m coping.’
‘Okay. It’s also about a new range of relationships between women, of trust and support, and exploration of oneself.’
‘Consciousness raising. Wow, Mum, better late than never. Is that what this deal with the old house is all about?’
Holly chuckled. ‘Well maybe your father would think so. I suspect he thinks it’s all a bit self-indulgent. He can’t see a fast enough profit.’
‘You could sell it after next New Year,’ Melanie responded seriously. ‘Keep it through the holidays so we can bring our friends up, then sell. You’ll make money on it, if you don’t spend a fortune on the renovations. Bit of paint, plant lots of geraniums. Your builder seems very fastidious. That’s expensive.’
‘Is that all you think I’m doing? Just trying to make a fast buck? And then what?’
‘Hey, don’t get your back up. Do something else. Fix up another place somewhere. I mean The Bay is a nice place, for a holiday. But you wouldn’t want to live here.’
‘Why not? You don’t know what’s here. There’s a lot more than the beach. This is a cutting-edge community.’
‘Hello, Mum! Your home is in Mosman! With Dad. I can’t see him fitting in with the greenie guru dopeheads up here. Can you? And you can’t spend your days running a guesthouse. God, make some money and enjoy it.’
‘I am enjoying myself,’ said Holly stubbornly. ‘Listen, I’m going up to the house to get lunch. You and Marcus come when you’re ready.’ She softened her voice. ‘Or do what you want. I just want you to enjoy yourselves. If you’d prefer to hang out here or eat downtown, do it.’
‘Lunch at the house will be great. I’ll have a sunbathe first though.’ Melanie was making amends too. So often there were these little sparks between them; if not stamped on they could burst into small fires.
When the kids had first arrived Holly had felt clingy, she had missed them and thinking about Erica made her appreciate how lucky she was. But soon enough the daily bickering had surfaced. It seemed they could never please each other. Holly desperately wanted them both to feel the way she did about Richmond House. But they didn’t see it through her eyes, with all its romance and history. They saw an old place being renovated with perhaps too much adherence to its heritage; that it was in a stunning location where they could bring their friends to surf and party.
It occurred to Holly as she hiked up the hill to the house that perhaps she shouldn’t snuff out the sparks, but let a healthy cleansing bushfire rush over them. Like in nature, when it took a fire to renew the country. She’d never had an adult confrontation with her children. There had been petty fights over childhood issues like keeping rooms tidy, coming in late, appropriate friends, but they’d never communicated on a serious level as adults. She didn’t think they would have listened if she’d disagreed anyhow. She suspected her children didn’t regard her as someone with whom to have any deep intellectual debate. But with her new feelings of self-confidence and independence, she would welcome it. Now she didn’t feel she had everything to lose. She wanted to be her own person. And, she suspected, while there might be some conflict, they could only respect her for it.
Holly felt in her bones and heart that she was coming to terms with who she was, her potential, her aspirations, her value, her contribution to those involved with her on a regular basis, the community and, hell, the planet. Her children, and her husband, would have to understand and accept her on these new terms. She was undergoing a gentle transformation, which would affect them all.
She was surprised to find Mitchell at the house. He had said he would keep away while she had her children there so as not to disrupt the family, and he apologised. ‘I need the handles and brass hinges to try to match them. Stolle found a guy who can make anything from Asian antiques to copies of pressed-metal ceiling panels.’
‘Great. Want a cup of tea?’
‘Thanks, but no. I have to see a client.’ He gave her a second glance. ‘Are you all right? You look tense.’
‘It’s the old syndrome of being chief cook and bottle washer. And punching bag,’ she said with a small smile. ‘I’d got used to just looking after me.’
‘Everything okay?’ He knew she’d been anxious that her children love Richmond House as much as she did.
‘Kids. When the house has been fixed up they want to bring their friends here, then sell it and move on. I might as well be running a caravan park.’
Mitchell was tempted to remind her that he thought that seemed to have been her plan when he’d first met her. ‘It’s the nature of children to be selfish. Which is why we should look after our own needs as well as theirs. You do what feels right and good to you. Unless there’s a financial constraint –’
‘It’s not that. Though I have sunk my own savings into this, and Marcus is pressing me to help him fund his own business.’
‘That’s ambitious. He hasn’t left uni yet, has he?’ exclaimed Mitchell. ‘What kind of business?’
‘He’s been designing websites and doing graphic work. Andrew thinks he’s pretty good.’
‘There’s probably money in it. But he’s a bit young to be talking about his own business, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t really know. My world, our world, seems to have been left behind by this new generation. Do you think that, or is it only me? I can’t help feeling the ground is constantly shifting under my feet since I came here, forcing me to review practically every aspect of my life, all my values.’
Mitchell had heard her talking this way before, and it hurt him to see her like this. With the memory of Andrew and Letitia Sweetman still vivid in his mind he was torn between whether to say something or hope Andrew would come to his senses and see the treasure he had in Holly. ‘Listen, Holly, we all go through periods of change in our lives. And this place tends to accelerate change, to bring about an awakening,’ he said.
‘I didn’t come here to change my life. I just wanted to add something,’ she said, sounding very unsure.
Mitchell hesitated, then said quietly, ‘Would you like to experience something special? It’s probably a once in a lifetime thing that I think you might enjoy, but it might also help you think about things – you, your life, your future – in a different way.’
‘Gosh, like climb Mount Hazard to see the sun rise, or spend three hours in a float tank?’ she joked. Then said seriously, ‘Seeing as you put it that way, how can I say no? I’m game for anything these days.’
‘It’s nothing scary or dangerous. But you need a week away. Come on the whale-watch expedition with me. I’m involved with the Oceania project so I go every year . . . it’s really special. A week on a new catamaran sailing off Hervey Bay watching the whales. There’s a group of us that go for research, collecting skin samples the whales shed for DNA testing, all kinds of things. But paying guests come along because it’s, well, phenomenal.’
‘Do you see whales? For sure? I’d hate to wallow around without seeing a whale. Like, close up?’
Mitchell laughed. ‘Oh, yes. They know us, we have the same ones come to us each year. We know them all. There’s even a rare white female that puts in an appearance if we’re lucky. They come right up to the s
ide of the boat. It’s something that’s hard to describe. You have to be there, as they say.’
‘It sounds fabulous. I think I’ve earned a break. I was planning to go back down to Sydney but now I have the children here, I don’t feel the need . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Listen, think about it and we’ll talk more. I’ll introduce you to Trish and Wally who run it.’
‘Great. Oh, Mitch, Mac asked me if a group of ladies from the aged home could come up for a tour of the house and I’d show them what I’m doing. I’m not ready, nor is the garden, but they seem to love any outing so I agreed. But I thought maybe we could get rid of the old timber and some of the building stuff from the garden.’
‘Sure thing. No problem. See you in a couple of days. Cheers.’
After videoing yet another wedding of a Japanese couple on the lighthouse reserve Eddie wandered over to Tina’s office to take up her invitation for ‘a cuppa’.
‘Another session of creative shooting?’ Tina asked as he entered.
‘Don’t knock it,’ Eddie said. ‘Bread and butter stuff, and it helps kick along the town’s tourism business. At least it’s better than doing a wedding on top of Mount Hazard at dawn. Did that once, and don’t want to repeat the experience.’
‘Milk and one if I remember.’
‘Ta. Have you brought over any of the old things from the lighthouse yet?’
‘Knew you’d ask. Over there.’ She pointed to two large cardboard boxes of papers, books and folders. ‘I’ve already given in to temptation and spent a few hours browsing, and it’s fascinating. I’m starting to make an archival index on the computer.’
Eddie sipped his tea and glanced at Tina, then walked over to the boxes. ‘Some pretty dry stuff amongst all this. You prepared to wade through it all?’
‘History was my favourite subject at school and uni,’ she said. ‘For a while I contemplated becoming a history teacher.’
‘Can’t imagine you confined to a classroom,’ said Eddie. ‘You show me what to put down and I’ll add to the archive as I go through the boxes. How about that?’
She quickly brought up the file on her computer and they sat together as she explained the system. Then she pointed to a desk in the corner of the room. ‘That can be your research centre,’ she declared. ‘No one is using it. And when you’ve finished, you can buy me a drink.’
Eddie was soon totally absorbed in the old diaries, journals, ships’ logs and notes kept by the lighthouse keepers. He found anecdotes and records of events that were straight out of the pages of a boys’ own adventure book or a swashbuckling movie. They were so interesting he kept reading extracts to Tina until she interrupted.
‘Rule number one. Reading aloud only permitted for major discoveries, or sexy bits. I’ve got work to do, you know.’
‘Okay. But what an amazing lively town Beacon Bay must have been in the old days. Full of a lot of hard-drinking working men, from the sound of it.’
‘Some of the older women of the town have told me The Bay was not the place for refined young ladies. It was considered a bit down at heel and working class. It was a place for slumming, before it became a place for sunning.’
‘Very nicely put.’
‘Flattery will get you anything,’ she said, and returned to her paperwork.
Eddie picked up a new file, forcing himself to concentrate. The variety of information was at once enlightening and confusing; so many diverse impressions, so many interesting stories. Everything he read gave him fresh ideas for his developing documentary. He became so engrossed that he didn’t notice Tina leave to make her final patrol of the day. When she came back he still had his head down, carefully scanning old black and white photographs.
‘These are great photos, if you like slaughterhouses. Nineteen-fifties. Where’d they come from?’ he asked.
‘Sid Wainwright donated them. He was the last meat inspector at the abattoir, near the whaling station. Sid only had a box brownie with one speed and one aperture opening.’
‘Well he had a good eye for framing a subject, even if there is a lot of blood in these shots,’ Eddie said. He flicked through some yellowing newspaper clippings. ‘Sid had funny ideas about what made news, judging by what he kept. Some bloke hanged himself under the jetty one New Year’s Day. “Gruesome start to the year” the local rag called it. And here’s another tragedy, “Bomb Blast Kills Boy”, an unexploded World War Two bomb a kid found in the sand.’
‘Yeah, it was from a whale chaser the Americans commandeered for an ammunition boat in the war. The crew got on the turps and crashed it into the old jetty. That was hushed up. The wreck is a favourite spot for local divers,’ said Tina. ‘Sid has the story, among many. He’s one of the town’s great ear benders. He only needs an audience of one and he’s away.’
‘You mean he’s still around? How lucid is he?’
‘Sid? He’s in his eighties and seems in good shape. But he’s deaf as a post without his hearing aid and you can’t get away from him for hours at a stretch.’
‘I’ve got to talk to him. How fantastic to get that on camera: the old boy reminiscing around the town. How it was, what happened, what he thinks of it all now. Where can I find him?’
‘No worries there, I’ve got his number,’ Tina said and tossed a set of keys into the air and caught them. ‘It’s lockup time and you owe me a drink. Remember?’
They sat under palms in the patio of the Big Pub and took in the state of the surf just across the road. The usual locals having an early sundowner were talking about the recent local rugby league team victory but lack of crowd support was a worry, and the run of brilliant weather that was giving the tourists a fabulous season. There were also the backpackers, many of them from overseas, reading mail from home, writing postcards and entries in diaries, and comparing travel experiences.
At one table Holly was having drinks with her children, who were both a little sunburned, and laughing at the photos they’d just collected from the chemist around the corner. Billy and his family were eating hamburgers, Stolle was talking to a man and scribbling notes. The back of his T-shirt was emblazoned with the motto ‘Globalisation Sucks’. The hard sunlight that dominated the day had softened, the nor’-easter was dying down, and the ocean glare had been replaced by a subdued blue. It was as if The Bay was taking a breath before an evening of frenzied enjoyment.
On rocks by the beach a handful of drummers and a couple of didge players were warming up with impromptu bursts of music, in preparation for their evening ritual of sending the sun down in a crescendo of sound. Several people danced on the sand, each wrapped in their interpretation and enjoyment of the rhythm.
‘Are you going to bring Sid here for a comment on the changing scene?’ said Tina. ‘There was a funny old pub on this spot in the twenties.’ Not waiting for a reply she went on, ‘Have you settled on a theme for this doco yet?’
Eddie took time to answer. ‘Probably end up being several themes, but one thing is obvious. Paradise found, paradise for sale, paradise lost.’
‘I know what you mean. We must have passed a dozen signs just on the way here, all saying “For Sale. Development Opportunity”.’
‘Everyone keeps saying this place is so special, but just how far will they go to keep it like that in the face of development pressures? The Bay is a hot site on the web, on the itinerary of half the world’s backpackers, on the agenda of every Aussie teenager, and in the eyes of every greedy developer who passes by.’
‘A good question to ask. Best of luck in finding an answer,’ Tina said, raising her glass. ‘You’re up against the Greed is Good tidal flow. We’ll even lose our beaches if we don’t put in offshore reefs because of our building interference. Making headway against that is like paddling . . . well, you know.’
Eddie nodded, and they both tuned in to the drummers who were lifting the tempo as the sun dipped towards the distant ranges.
Sid’s old brick and weatherboard house tucked on a small blo
ck right across from Tiny Bay Beach was a gem.
‘I knew every inch of The Bay so when the missus and I decided to build I bought the best bit of land. I still don’t get tired of looking at that,’ he said, pointing to the sweep of ocean stretching to the horizon. ‘The Cape is to the left so the lighthouse beam peers into our kitchen every night.’
Beyond the headland, across the bay, were the distant ranges and the length of Mighty Beach disappearing into the northern haze.
Sid was steady if cautious on his feet, white hair stood in tufts that refused to lie flat, there was a gap or two in his cheerful smile and behind his thick lenses his eyes were a washed-out blue. He wore a hand-knitted vest over a shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbow. Touches of ‘the late missus’ were everywhere. Photos and mementos crowding table and shelves, crochet on almost every surface, the handiwork of Mrs Wainwright, whose basket of thread and crochet hooks rested beside her leather chair in the glassed-in sunroom. Here Sid sat, occasionally glancing at the empty chair beside his own.
‘The missus and I sat here to watch the sunset most nights for over fifty years,’ he said. ‘They never seem as bright as they used to when she was here.’ He gave a bit of a smile. ‘Might have to clean the windows, eh?’ He ran a finger across one of the glass louvres. ‘Now, young man, what do you want to know?’
He relished the company, and sipping his sherry told Eddie how he’d come to The Bay as a young man to work in the abattoir that was next to the whaling station. ‘Both were messy jobs, so the set-up close to the beach was convenient. And in those days it was away from the town centre. Town has spread a bit. Just a few fishing shacks along the beach in the sixties.’
‘Yeah, now look at the development,’ said Eddie. ‘This will soon be a place only for rich people. I can’t afford to live near the beach.’
‘Greed. Gets everyone in the end. I have ’em banging on my door a couple of times a week. My kids will probably knock this place down and put up units.’ He sighed. ‘But we’ve had good times here. Watched them grow up on the beach down there.’
