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man leaping about at the water’s edge. He galloped one way and
then the other along a five metre stretch of sand, like a coach on
the touchline, raising his fist to the sky, calling out to the sea. He
jumped in the air. He leaned on his knees and shook his head.
People eyed him curiously as they pushed into the swirling
waters towards the sandbar. The swimmers let out their waves of
delight as they rode the peaks and his booming voice carried above
them, calling out names: Lou! Jack! Phoebe! A strong-looking girl
on a striped board teetered and crashed near the shore. Her board
shot out towards a swimmer and stopped just short, caught by
her leg rope. She emerged from the foam, her long blonde hair in
strips across her face, smiling. ‘Sorry,’ she said, before turning to
the man on the beach, her hand resting on her board as though
it were a piano and this was the moment of silence before she let
loose her voice. The man too seemed like he was waiting for her to
sing, looking up into the misty sky and then back at the girl, aqua
eyes made of the same stuff as the sea.
The day, endless as it felt, began to wane. The lifesavers were
packing up their shelter, pulling up the flags. ‘Merry Christmas!’
one called into his loudhailer from the beach buggy. ‘Stay safe.’ He
started the vehicle and called to the man at the shore, ‘Watch the
rip,’ but he didn’t seem to hear, absorbed by the sight of a chubby
little kid leaping sideways laughing off her board into the messy
pond at his feet.
As the beach emptied there was a tiny movement from the
top of the cliff. The man caught it and looked up at a figure on a
balcony, waving a piece of cloth from side to side as though a small
plane flew overhead and she was hoping to be rescued. She waved
from the apricot house, the one that looked ready to join the rocks
at the base of the cliff.
The visitors trudged to the carpark on the warm sand, the air
smelling of sausages and suncream as they queued to wash the
sticky sand off their feet and boards. No need for the family on
the beach to tackle the carpark, or fill the car with sand. A walk
up the track, a warm shower, a cold drink from the fridge out on
the breezy deck.
The beachgoers drove back to their apartments in the suburbs,
their homes in the green hills. Walking the dog in the quiet streets
in the pink dusk, watering the tomato plants on the sill, they
thought of that man down at the beach. What was it about him?
Him, of all the people packed onto the shoreline on a dreamy
Christmas afternoon. Some had pulled their towels a little closer
to the water after their swim, kept half an eye on him as he called
out to his children from the shore. Those girls, the Amazonian,
the most natural surfer, with her strong legs and shoulders, her
long hair streaming behind her; the little chubby one, laughing
and clowning. A boy, who seemed a teenaged replica of the man
with his slight body and wild sandy hair, but nervy and sweet, his
triumphs and failures written in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of
his chin.
It was the father they remembered though, oblivious as he
was to the atmosphere of the beach, its softness, its air of gentle
pleasure. When one of his children wiped out, or caught a wave
and rode it in, something drew your glance back again and again
from the child in the water to the man on the sand. Irresistible, the
spectacle of him, feelings surging through him like a heavy swell
pushing towards the shore.
leaves onto the dimpled paper. Out there, the flicker of animals,
the movement of branches. Recently, the sense that there was
something more than the animals among the trees, something that
thought in language.
One spring Saturday he decided to skip his usual bike ride along
the trails, spooked into risking the atmosphere at home. He and
his sisters lolled in front of Rage in the lounge, eating endless bowls
of Fruit Loops, their parents nowhere in sight. They all loved Rage,
fought about every single song, often physically, someone sitting
on you to force a confession, that you liked Céline Dion, that you
loved Bryan Adams, only to retract it the moment you were free.
The children were heaped on the couch, slack-jawed in horror at
some boy band in matching sweaters, when their dad took up a
position between them and the television.
Jack grew still and ready, studying his father for a sign of intent.
Charlie twitched in front of the TV in a tatty T-shirt and running
shorts, waiting for the girls’ attention. He clamped his lips together,
preventing something from escaping, a humming bird or mouse,
and held his hands at his chest, cycling his fingers as though he
were playing the harp at manic speed, happy with whatever tune
came out, like a toddler. He’d bought something, probably, just
so that he could create this moment of suspense and then awed
appreciation. Like the Mustang, the pinball machine, the boat. The
Megadrive. The divers’ watches.
Fat little Phoebe was off the couch, making ready to launch,
and then bam, she slammed into Charlie’s legs, flung her arms
around his waist. She tried to scramble up him like she had when
she was tiny and nimble, her feet sliding down his thighs, bare
below his shorts. She pulled his head down to her mouth and
Jack could smell last year’s burning summer, recall closing his eyes
at night to see a perfect circle of advancing fire.
The girls pressed against Jack on either side, Phoebe’s squishy
thighs, Lou’s bony hips. Silent, all of them, waiting, his sisters’
faces resting against opposite windows. The two bowls of cereal
Jack had eaten sloshed in his stomach and he kept his eyes on
the horizon.
In the front seat, Tricia leaned her shimmering blonde head
towards Charlie. ‘What is it?’ she whispered. He waggled his head
from side to side and gave her a grin, looked at Jack in the mirror,
his pale green eyes iridescent. She laughed and murmured, ‘Charlie
Bright.’ Jack kept his gaze on that band of deep blue beyond the
bush. What was it now? A helicopter ride, a swim in a famous
person’s pool. He refused to get worked up about it. Whatever
it was.
By the time they turned north at the bottom of the hill and
began to crawl through the beach suburbs with the Saturday traffic,
Phoebe had cracked. She leaned across Jack towards the front seats,
smelling of Fruit Loops and suncream, her fingers soft and hot on
his leg. ‘Is it . . . whale watching? Is it . . . free diving? Is it . . . rock
fishing? Is it—’
‘It’s nothing you’re going to guess, pudding.’ Charlie laughed.
‘Never in a million years!’ The car fell quiet as they continued to
speculate in private.
Up the hill and down its long wide slope they trailed a red
and cream Kombi into Newport with its surf shops and deli, its
teenage kids in their swimmers on bikes on this warm spring day.
The crowding greenery on the hills was dotted with fat purple jac-
arandas. Jack loved reaching the Newport strip; it was like entering
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her spot, the floor trembling as she threw herself down the stairs to
whatever lay beneath this room. Charlie followed her, two steps at
a time. ‘What do you think of your old man, now?’
‘My old man’s a genius!’ she called, and they thumped across
the boards below, laughing.
Tricia stood in the kitchen, leaning on the bench. Jack and Lou
waited for her to say something. The room was filled with the
boom of the waves. Jack spoke quietly, not knowing where the real
estate agent was. ‘Has he bought it, Mum? Or is he seeing what we
think first?’
‘I think he’s actually bought it,’ she whispered quickly. She bit
her lip, trying not to smile.
‘He’d buy a house without talking to you about it?’ Lou said.
Tricia leaned forward on the counter that divided the kitchen
from the dining area. ‘You know your dad. Loves to surprise us.’
She giggled, then made herself serious. ‘We talked about moving.
I said I might like to, now. I might even have suggested it.’
They waited for her to say more.
‘Things don’t feel the same any more, do they?’
Jack, caught in their whispering habit, said quickly, ‘Shouldn’t
we stay, though? Do you think . . . we should wait and see what
happens?’
His mother gave him an impatient look—don’t spoil it, Jack—
and he looked for the words to explain. A trembling preceded the
others returning up the stairs and Phoebe launched herself across
the living room at the scruffy old couches, jumping on the springs.
The agent appeared from the corridor. Tricia straightened up and
clasped a skinny elbow with her other hand, the way she often
did when she was smoking. ‘Phoebe! You’ll break the furniture.’
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her fifty laps a day. ‘And he’d build a new place, right? Now’s his
big chance.’
‘Listen to you. Thought you didn’t care.’
‘I didn’t know it would be this.’
‘Yeah.’
The air was filled with mist and thunder. The clean green
waves rolled onto the beach in a long broken line, massive shoul-
ders making butterfly strokes, over and over again. Jack watched
that moment of bulging water, held the last moment before the
wave tumbled and felt a tension that ran like shivers through his
body. He tried to conjure his room at home, the bronze angophora
trunks in the changing light, to think properly about what it was
he’d be giving up, walking away from, but the sound of the ocean
washed over memory.
A movement caught his eye, a runner, a slow ant, coming off a
path that emerged from the base of the cliff onto the beach. He saw
himself stepping off that track at the start of the day, the cool sand
of morning beneath his feet, the beach and sky pink. The water
would be dark and smooth, swelling. He could grow to contain it,
that feeling of being poised at the crest, about to fall. All this air,
all this water, no one here but you.
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