through the spray, and then I was locked into the world of blue and white water, jetting ahead with everything around me tight and controlled and beautiful.
I used the rip to get out and caught a few good waves, but none to equal that first one. I lay on the beach and ate the food and drank the mineral water. Although I didn’t really want coffee, I had a cup just to support that sound environmental policy. A harsh Aussie voice over the PA system called for “Wayne Lucas’ and Adam Amato’ and ‘Brenda Kimonides’ to call at the kiosk. I drifted off to sleep with Lonesome Dove as a pillow and the Falcon’s distributor cap tucked away, dirtying my T shirt.
13
‘Mister. Mister!’
The voice, young and piping, was close to my ear and a hand was shaking my shoulder. I looked up and was blinded by the low sun.
‘You’re going to get wet, Mister. Tide’s coming in.’
My saviour was one of those truants, jiggers they call them now-aged about ten, skinny and brown, a true habitue of the beach. I thanked him and scrambled to my feet. Another minute or two and one of the more thrusting waves would’ve soaked me.
‘Thanks, son.’ I found a dollar in my shorts pocket and gave it to him. He looked at it doubtfully. I found a fifty cent piece and gave him that, too.
‘Thanks, mate.’ He ran towards the kiosk, flicking sand all over me with his take-off.
I collected my stuff and stood on the beach looking at the water. The surf was high and loud and the board riders were doing fine. Most of the swimmers had gone but there were still a few little kids playing on the rocks and bigger kids lounging around the surf club. Away to the south I could see people walking on the beach and a few immobile figures holding long rods and looking like permanent fixtures at the water’s edge.
I was stiff from sleeping on the hard sand in an awkward position. A hot shower would have been good but the sheds didn’t run to that. I stood under the cold water and rubbed and soaped and did knee bends until I felt loose. I hummed a few bars of The Sultans of Swing’ and a teenager gave me a sideways look. I did a rapid calculation: he’d have been five or six when the song came out. I remembered my father crooning Bing Crosby numbers, off key, in the bathroom with the door open. I remembered the smile on his face and the pleasure he was getting. He must have been imagining himself in Manhattan, in a tux, with slicked-back hair and a willowy blonde waiting to dance with him. Instead, he had a semi in Maroubra and my ratbag mum, my sister and me. I went on humming defiantly until it was time to turn off the water.
It was too early to go calling on the Senior Sergeant but not too early to find out where she lived. Burwood Road branched off Dudley Road in Whitebridge. The houses were generally upmarket and tasteless, colonnaded, triple-garage horrors, but hers was one of a set of four cottages facing the entrance to the Glenrock Nature reserve. The cottages were identical in structure but had undergone some changes over the years-bits added, verandahs closed in. My guess was that they were mine managers’ houses, several notches up from the workers’ houses. Glenys Withers’ house was the last in the set, possibly the cheapest to buy, because it was in a dip and would not have had an ocean view. It was also the least adulterated.
I drove down the gravel track to Dudley Beach through light timber and scrub that didn’t look to have changed since settlement. The ocean opened out in front of me after a particularly sharp and badly cambered turn and I almost missed the first stunning impact of the view as I fought the steering wheel for traction. The beach was long, wide and curving with rugged rock formations at either end. From this elevation and direction the water looked almost threatening, as if it would not be confined by the bay but would sweep up the sides and carve chunks out of the coast. Maybe it would. There was a car park at the bottom of the road, a rutted, half-hearted affair of posts and wire fences. It was a safe bet that not many of the BMWs and Volvos I’d seen in the Whitebridge driveways would risk their suspensions on the road or stand here in the blazing sun on a summer day. Dudley was still a beach for the people who went places on foot.
‘Come in, Mr Hardy’
She was wearing a black silk shirt and a blue and white horizontally striped skirt that came down well below her knees. Shoes with a bit of a heel. She had her hair pushed back from her face and held with some kind of a clip. Her forehead sloped back and her blue eyes seemed to bulge slightly. She smelled slightly of wine.
Peter Corris
CH14 — Aftershock
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Nice house. Best in the neighbourhood.’
She laughed and moved aside to let me into the hallway. ‘Aren’t they awful? And they keep getting worse. I’d had my eye on these houses for years and nearly went mad when they came up for auction.’
I had a folder under my arm which contained a selection of the Oscar Bach material. I’d hoped to impress her with it, but right now I was the one being impressed. The hall was painted in soft colours and the hardwood floor was highly polished. The place smelled of natural things-wood, earth and flowers. We went through to a sitting room-cum-kitchen that held a lot of light and just the right amount of furniture.
‘White wine or beer?’ she said.
‘Wine, thanks.’ I put the folder on the pine table and looked through the back window. The view was of open, lightly timbered country rising back up towards a ridge covered with the sorts of houses that decorated Burwood Road. She handed me a stemmed glass and followed my gaze.
‘When I was little, all this was open way back up to the mine. These houses were all owned by BHP-leased to the mine managers and engineers. They sold them off a year or so ago.’
‘You were lucky some developer didn’t buy them up and level them.’
She nodded. ‘Lucky by six months. A bit earlier when the developers were flush, that’s exactly what would’ve happened. As it was, the houses went to people who wanted to live in them. Sit down. Let’s talk. What’ve you got?’
I sat and couldn’t help laughing. ‘You call that talking?’
She picked up the half-full wineglass that had been standing on the table and took a sip. ‘I suppose not. We have to trade, do we?’
That had been my thought but now, looking at her, it didn’t seem to make a lot of sense. The little bit of the house I’d seen spoke volumes-she lived alone, independently, made her own choices. Sleek brown hair and blue eyes, slim, shapely body below the slightly padded black silk shoulders. I was dry-mouthed and needed the wine. ‘Glenys doesn’t suit you,’ I said.
‘I’m called Glen, mostly’
We stood simultaneously and I reached for her. Her body was strong and soft at the same time and she was taller than I’d thought. We came together at the thighs and I felt her arms go around my waist. I put my hand behind her head and searched for her mouth. We kissed like thirsty travellers finding a well in the desert. Her mouth was soft and it opened and we probed each other, taking something and seeking something more. When the kiss ended we were standing clamped together; I could feel her breasts against my chest and I put my hand up to touch them. She undid a button and put my hand inside. She was naked under the blouse; my fingers closed over the soft, cool flesh and I felt her nipple rising.
Then her hand was over mine, holding it still, preventing further exploration. ‘Are you married or living with someone?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘That’s good.’
Her bedroom was large and at the front of the house. I’d been right about the water view. From the window I got an impression of moonlight and stars, tree tops and clouds. I lay back with my head propped up on two or three pillows and didn’t bother to try to make the images any clearer. Her head was on my chest and her hands were patting her groin. She was making little moaning noises.
‘Good,’ she said, ‘that was so good.’
