What you like about your crappy so-called profession W is being able to piss off whenever it suits you.’
That was my ex-wife Cyn’s assessment of my attraction to my job and I couldn’t say that she was entirely wrong. There were other things-the interesting characters, the edginess, the satisfaction of bringing something to a conclusion-but they wouldn’t have cut any ice with Cyn even if I’d spoken about them. A lot of the time we weren’t on speaking terms. An architect, she’d blotted me out with cigarette smoke and scale drawings. Well, she had her North Shore stay-at-home advertising executive now, and her two kids, and I could still piss off.
In the morning I pulled out one of my collection of tattered road maps and plotted the route. Hadn’t been down that way in years. It was a long run but what the hell. With luck I’d get in a swim and a bodysurf. I filled the Falcon’s tank, checked the oil and water and cleaned the windscreen and the back window that had gathered dust on the way back from Pittwater. I also put air in the tyres and the spare. Never let it be said that Hardy went unprepared. But the Smith amp; Wesson. 38 stayed in the house. It wasn’t that kind of a trip, or at least I hoped not.
The weather was warm but the sky was iffy, with dark clouds building and then dissipating as the wind shifted around. I packed my usual summer travelling gear-a change of shirt and socks, a linen jacket, toiletries and shaving stuff, a towel, swimmers and thongs. Robert Hughes for company at night, unless something else turned up. I had a clutch of cassettes taken from the shelf at random, and a camera.
Even bypassing Wollongong on the freeway, it was a slow run through Kiama and Nowra. There was enough of the summer left over for holiday-makers and home-goers to still be using the highway. The traffic thinned out after Ulladulla, and the sky cleared as a strong easterly pushed the threatening clouds inland. I made Bangara by midafternoon and booked into yet another motel. What was the title of that Frank Zappa album- 200 Motels? Tell me about it.
The memorial was easy to find. It formed the entrance to a large park a block back from the beach. The names of the serving soldiers were on the side away from the water, protecting them from the effects of salty winds and leaving them fairly well preserved after sixty-plus years. Graffitists and vandals had done a certain amount of damage to the edifice but not to the lists of names. Even the antisocial seem to have some respect for names etched in stone. It didn’t take long for me to find what Justin had found -the name Hampshire did not appear among the fallen or the returned. I took a couple of photographs.
I was a bit tired after the drive so I sat on a bench in the park under the shade of a tree I couldn’t identify and thought about this discovery, or non-discovery. The boy had been brought up to venerate a fallen hero antecedent and found he’d been sold a lie. Given what I’d learned about how locked in to the military traditions he’d been, I could imagine the impact on him. But why didn’t he say anything about it to anyone-his sister, his mother, his absent father? Shame perhaps, or anger?
The wind gusted and leaves gathered around my feet and at the base of the arch. The sky clouded over. I wondered whether Justin had sat here before rejoining his party and remaining strangely silent on the return trip, so that even Simmons, not the most sensitive observer, had noticed it.
Bangara had the best south coast features-an estuary formed by Wilson’s Creek, a back beach and a surf beach. The town swells in the holiday period and settles back into sleepiness for the rest of the year. Keen surfers come for the waves at off-season times and there is a certain amount of game fishing for those who can’t afford the prices further south at Bermagui, where Zane Grey fished in the 30s and Lee Marvin did more recently. I cherished the memory of a photo of Marvin, with his trademark grin, carrying a crate of Great Western champagne down to the boat. The only way to fish.
I strolled along the foreshore and one look cured me of a wish to surf. Under the onshore wind the waves were rolling in as if they intended to build one upon another, collapse and wipe out the beach. Of course they didn’t, but they’d throw a bodysurfer around like a cork and there was no fun in that. A swim from the sandy banks of Wilson’s Creek looked like the best bet. The surf club building was the usual sturdy bricks and mortar, glass and aluminium structure with cement surrounds. I had Paul Hampshire’s photograph of his missing son in my shirt pocket and thought I’d try it on the surfing community. A way to check whether Justin had returned to the scene of his epiphany- a long shot.
Half a dozen people were hanging around the club, four men and two women. They were waxing down boards, smoking, chatting and looking disgruntled at the state of the water. I approached with the photograph and my credentials. Surfers who can’t surf get bored easily and my arrival at least provided them with some interest. They were in their twenties, with one of the women, wearing a lifesaver’s cap and badge on her swimsuit, looking slightly older than the rest. I sympathised about the waves and told them my business, showing the photograph.
‘Surfer, was he?’ one of the men asked.
‘Yeah, good one apparently.’
‘Haven’t seen him around here.’
The others looked at the photograph and shook their heads.
‘Wouldn’t mind, though,’ one of the women said.
The older one, the lifesaver, called her a slut in a good-natured way. The first man I’d dealt with seemed reluctant to leave it at that and asked for the name. I told him and one of the others spoke up.
‘There’s a few of them in the graveyard. I do some gardening up there part-time and I’ve seen the headstones. Don’t know of any around by that name now, but.’
I asked for directions to the graveyard and was told it was across from the park. Perhaps Justin had spent a little more time looking around after all. I thanked them and drove about until I found the entrance. The graveyard was shielded by a long stand of tall trees that were now casting deep shadows across the headstones. A sign said it closed at sunset. I had about an hour.
Country graveyards tend to be overgrown, but this one was reasonably well cared for, with the grass kept under control and the iron railings showing signs of maintenance. Like the memorial arch, the place was partially protected from the salt-laden winds, but time had taken its toll of the inscriptions. Wandering in graveyards isn’t my favourite occupation but it has a certain interest. Poignant messages catch your eye, with lives tragically abbreviated by disease and drowning, intermingled with encouragingly long ones. As always, the women lived longer than the men.
I found several Hampshires, husbands and wives and children, but they all dated back to the nineteenth century or the early twentieth at the latest. I took a few photographs for no good reason other than to show Paul Hampshire I’d been on the job. He just might be interested, although it was the absence of an inscription on the memorial that should really interest him.
A longish day, kilometres covered and things learned. Call it satisfactory. I went back to the motel, showered and walked into the township to find somewhere to eat. Choices were few, and a bistro attached to the pub seemed the best bet. I ordered a steak and salad, bought a small carafe of red and settled down in a sheltered part of the beer garden to get mellow. The first glass went down slowly and well and I poured another.
‘Hello.’
I looked up from the pouring to see the woman from the surf club-the slightly older lifesaver. She was carrying a tray with my steak, a napkin, cutlery and salt and pepper shakers on it. I half rose, the way you do, and helped her lay out the fixings.
‘You’re supposed to get the cutlery and the napkin yourself but I made an exception in your case.’
I raised my glass. ‘Thanks. Why?’
‘I’m a Hampshire,’ she said, ‘but I’m from a bit of the family that changed its name quite a while back. We’re Petersens now-that’s with three e’s-but my great-grandad was a Hampshire.’
‘My name’s Cliff Hardy. I’d like to talk to you. You are…?’
She pointed to my plate. ‘Better eat while it’s hot. I’m Kathy Petersen. Gotta get back to work.’
‘When you finish?’
‘Sure, why not. Kitchen closes at nine thirty.’
She walked off with her tray. She was tall and lean, sharp-featured, with a confident style. She wore loose trousers and sneakers and a knee-length blue smock with white piping. Her dark hair was cut short. Studs in both ears; no rings.
The steak was fair, the chips good and the salad very good-gave it seven out often overall. It was just after eight o’clock so I had time to kill. I ate slowly and went very quietly with the wine. I knew I was no oil painting,
