The Bay (4 page)

Drew lifted his arms to gain the crowd's attention. Yes, she could easily see him running along a beach towards the camera, spinning and tossing his hair. All in rippling slo-mo. She refocused and stretched out her arms as Drew called for them to embrace the air and take a deep breath.

‘Oh, 'scuse me.' Amber had flung her arm into the person next to her.

‘No problem.' The man beside her gave her a friendly grin and the little girl with him smiled up at her. ‘We just got up, I'm not very co-ordinated this early but young Hope, here, is full of energy.'

‘You letting Mum sleep in, eh?' laughed Amber.

‘You got it. We drew straws. I lost. Though I shouldn't complain, this is a pretty good way to start a new year. My name's Billy, by the way.'

‘You run the hair salon in the arcade, don't you?' asked Amber. She'd passed by and seen him smoking and reading the racing guide. He'd always struck her as being different from the few hairdressers she'd met. ‘I'm afraid I rarely go to hair salons.'

‘Doesn't look like you need to.' He'd taken in the mass of wavy auburn hair, her tilted nose, large green eyes and a great smile. Probably early twenties, he thought.

‘I'll give you more room.' She stepped a pace to the side. ‘I'm not an expert at this. Drew persuaded me to start classes a couple of weeks ago, but I think I prefer swimming.' She turned her attention back to the yoga instructor, following the movements of the line in front of them.

‘My wife is really good at it,' said Billy. ‘Personally, I don't think God meant us to sit on our heads.'

Amber laughed. ‘It's all part of The Bay experience. Along with float tanks, Reiki, kinesiology, tarot and tantric breath classes.'

He looked at her. ‘Are you a local?'

‘Since a kid. But I left years ago and just came back.'

‘Did you come back to be with your family?' He spoke quietly, the group was settling into a concentrated silence. They were at the back and felt less obvious.

‘No, to start a business. My mother lives here though.'

‘What kind of business?'

She smiled. ‘You're not a local, are you?'

‘Came from Melbourne eighteen months ago. How could you tell?'

‘A local would've asked my family name rather than what sort of business. Starting a business in The Bay is regarded as vaguely heretical, well, pretty desperate.'

He smiled. ‘Yep, people just seem to hang, they avoid doing. So what kind of business – seeing as we're of the same heretical ilk?'

‘Oh, natural beauty products. A Bay kind of business.' She leaned down to grasp her ankle as the crowd let out a singular breath with a moan reverberating from deep in the collective diaphragm.

‘Sounds like a Tibetan monk's chant,' whispered Billy.

Hope broke the spell by asking loudly, ‘Where are we going for breakfast, Daddy?'

Amber laughed with them as Billy straightened up. ‘I think I'll pass on the soul food the yoga people are offering. Want to join Hope and me for something rich and unhealthy down at the Beach Café?'

‘Sounds great.'

They unobtrusively left the group and began walking along the beach.

‘So tell me about your natural products. I've been experimenting with a few things for the hair.'

Amber found herself chatting about what she'd been doing and what she hoped to do. It was true what they said about hairdressers being easy to talk to. Hope took her hand as she skipped along. Suddenly Amber felt glad to be back at The Bay, even if unhappy circumstances had forced her to come home. Maybe this year was going to turn out all right after all.

The sound of the taxi reversing from her front yard seemed too loud in the stillness of the neighbourhood dawn. The parties were over. Kimberley glanced up at the lightening sky, it was going to rain again. The wet weather had dampened many New Year parties.

She thought back over the night. She'd lost track of a chunk of the evening, although she thought she'd had a good time. As good as it gets when you're in your mid thirties and a single mother – because your husband spends most of the year somewhere else. It's not a lot of fun watching the younger chicks duck upstairs, outside, anywhere, with the pick of the men, leaving the dregs looking hopefully in your direction. She'd danced though, non stop between many drinks and a few joints. She could still dance up a storm.

Midnight came and went. A rustle of rain, scudding clouds, a new year, a new age. So what? She had nothing new to look forward to this year any more than last year. Well, one could always hope.

Kimberley had turned away from the mob in the main room of the house and wandered along the verandah where people were comfortably sprawled, sitting on the railing, chatting, coming down from the midnight frenzy. She found an old sofa at the far end facing the dripping garden and settled into it. She pulled her cigarettes from her pocket and lit up, then contemplated the glowing end of the cigarette. Maybe that was something she could do – make a resolution to give up the fags.

‘Is someone sharing that seat?' A woman suddenly appeared beside the sofa, holding a drink and a cigarette.

‘No, help yourself. Smoke away.'

‘Did you make a resolution to give these up?' The woman twirled her cigarette.

‘It crossed my mind. Didn't seem particularly original as a resolution, though.'

‘Maybe we should make a resolution to take something up rather than give up something,' the woman said.

Kimberley smiled in the dark. ‘I wish.'

‘You've just got to do it.'

‘So what have you taken up lately?' Kimberley glanced at the woman beside her trying to place her. She seemed older than Kimberley, well spoken.

‘Me? I've embraced life. Eat, drink and be merry . . . for tomorrow we die.' Her tone was bitter.

‘Doesn't sound like embracing life to me, more a case of drowning not waving.'

‘You might be right there. Ever since I came to The Bay I have plunged into whatever was going. My husband and my parents would say I was out of my depth.'

‘Is he here too?'

‘God no. I'm divorced. He's off with the secretary and I couldn't rattle around in the house any more.' She took a large swallow from her glass. ‘My life turned upside down and I never saw it coming. Not a clue. What about you? Oh, I'm Bonnie, by the way. Bonnie Bitternden.'

‘Kimberley. I've been here fifteen years. Came up with a man trying to relive the sixties and seventies. I got pregnant, we got married and suddenly living in the hills in a mud house with a colicky baby lost its appeal. By the time I'd persuaded Colin to move into town he'd become Ashok and went on a pilgrimage to India.'

‘Ashok. Asshole. Lot of people up here have weird names. Orange people, Sannyassins, Miracle mob, Raelians, whatever. People I never knew existed when I lived in Melbourne. Maybe changing your identity is the way to go.'

Kimberley began to sense the loss and desperation of the woman beside her. Well-to-do middle class with the Persian rug pulled out from under her. ‘Changing your name and mumbling mantras doesn't really change your life. It has to be more fundamental than that. You have to change yourself first. Or get to know yourself perhaps. But you've come to the right place. This has always been a healing place for women,' said Kimberley quietly.

‘Yeah, well for the moment I'm making up for lost time. How old is your child?'

‘Matilda? She's fourteen.'

‘My daughter is the same age. Erica. I s'pose they know each other,' said Bonnie rather bleakly. ‘I don't do the school scene any more. Had enough of being the proper rah rah, pooh bah mother.' She rose to her feet, swaying slightly. ‘Well, happy New Year. Talked more to you than I have to anyone since I've been here.'

As she turned away Kimberley had the impression that the woman regretted talking about herself. She called after her, ‘Bonnie, when you're ready for friends, look me up.'

‘I'm better off on my own, thanks. Nice to meet you.'

She was gone. A sad woman, aged around forty, Kimberley guessed. She had seen others like her and she wondered what the New Year would bring her. Now Kimberley decided to go home, her own life didn't seem quite so bad. To quote the classics, life is what you make it. I'd better have a stab at this year then, she thought. At least now she had a goal.

Kimberley opened the front door to her house. A light burned in the sitting room where Mac was sleeping. Normally Matty didn't need a sitter, but New Year's Eve, when Kimberley planned to see in the dawn, was another matter.

She stared at the sleeping woman. Thank heavens for Mac.

Tilly MacDonald, almost grandmotherly – if you overlooked the henna-streaked braids, her ‘hippy dippy jewellery' of silver bangles, feathers and beads, and the fact she was always dressed in layers of purple. Satin embroidered bolero on top of a blouse over harem pants, a chiffon shawl draped over one shoulder and glittery mules, now threadbare, all in purple hues, on the floor by the couch, cast her as fairy godmother or possibly a benevolent feminist witch. In her sixties, she was hearty, practical, silly and described herself as ‘mad as a cut snake', which endeared her to practically everyone who met her.

Mac's wardrobe might be thought eccentric in a capital city or country town, but in the main street of The Bay she wasn't given a second glance. She was into her third Saturn return and had taken up ceramics. She was reliable and welcomed the few dollars she earned for spending time with Matilda. Sometimes she read tarot cards for extra cash. She and Matty got on famously, watching TV while Matty painted Mac's toenails with her favourite purple polish.

Mac was sleeping on the couch, the silent, flickering TV screen replaying the New Year's Eve celebrations over Sydney Harbour. A bottle of Pimm's sat on the coffee table with the remains of a plate of cheese and biscuits. Mac's little celebration. Kimberley kicked off her shoes and dropped her handbag on a shredding cane chair, wondering who on earth but Mac drank Pimm's Number One Cup any more. But then everything from the 1950s and sixties was so
in
, Matty had told her. She hoped Matty hadn't drunk the stuff.

She headed for the second bedroom in their small rented house and quietly opened the door. The room was in its usual state of teenage clutter. The ceiling fan churned slowly and Matty was sleeping on her back, one long brown leg thrust from beneath the sheet. Tiredness, a sense of relief that all was calm in the sleeping house, made Kimberley's shoulders sag. Why did she always succumb to desperate parties that she didn't enjoy? Why couldn't she make some decision, one way or another, about Matty's father? This was half a life for her, though it suited him.

She thought back to the woman she'd met briefly on the verandah. Did she want to be like Bonnie – bitter, frantic, playing fast and loose in a world she didn't understand and one that could possibly destroy her? Kimberley had seen it happen. She sighed. At breakfast she'd get Mac to read her cards. Just for fun. Now she'd decided to make a stab at something this year, perhaps Mac could point her in the right direction.

Kimberley tiptoed across the room and closed the screen door that Matty had left open, allowing moths, mosquitoes, cane toads, maybe a snake to get in. She glanced down at her sleeping daughter and smiled with contentment. No matter what happened between Ashok and herself, they had created and shared a wonderful girl. ‘Happy New Year, Matty,' she whispered. And suddenly, it was.

A
NDREW STOOD IN THE FRONT GARDEN OF THE PROPOSED
Richmond Guesthouse. Or was it the back garden? This was debatable. The driveway led into overgrown gardens which surrounded an old stone swimming pool, and from the broad verandah, through Bangalow palms, wattle and tropical vegetation, there was a view of the sea.

And what a view. The house sat on a low headland, with views of the Cape to one end and out to the ocean and the raw rough rocks of the marine reserve island, Brierly Rocks, straight ahead. A track ran down from the garden, and in two minutes you could be walking on the fine gold sand of Tiny Bay Beach. The property was at one end of the beach, angled away from the promontory which gave the home a sense of privacy and proprietorial claim to Tiny Bay Beach.

Traditionally, the people of the town had been hardworking, many with chequered family histories that went back to the mingled marriages of Kanaka canecutters, local tribespeople, white women of dubious repute and adventurers from across the seven seas. Like the fusion of elements, the town forged families of great strength. They frequently faced hardship and tragedy, but more often there was laughter, hope and success, the occasional disagreement, and the wisdom of the old-timers to chart their course. They had struggled and they had prospered. Many families had settled along the river, lured by the ‘red gold' – cedar. But the majority had clung to the sea. It was their lifeline.

Those hearty souls – including ladies, suitably attired in neck-to-knee costumes – who indulged in swimming sometimes trekked or rode over the headland to dip into the sheltered waters of Tiny Bay. Others swam in the inland lagoons and swimming holes in the rivers or at the base of waterfalls, deep in the rainforest.

Much of the area was still being opened up in the early 1900s when travelling photographer Tolston Beckheath, visiting from Sydney, became fascinated with the scenery and the people. His black-and-white prints from big glass-plate negatives brought him a measure of fame and prosperity, not only among the locals but in the city where there was increasing curiosity about life in the countryside.

The area now attracted camera-carrying visitors in their thousands. For the past forty years the town, the beaches and the lush hinterland had been shot in colour and with increasing frequency as the tourist industry put The Bay firmly on the map. With each generation and as each new cult came and went, more and more photo graphs were taken of the people who helped give this unconventional community its growing reputation for offering a good time and good value. The modern record of The Bay and its people was captured on postcards, calendars, posters, and proudly framed in the community hall. A local artist had taken it upon himself to paint a colourful mural on the outside walls of the dilapidated hall, portraying characters and scenes from life in The Bay.

Inside the community hall there were shots of early surfers on their long boards including one of the local boys alongside the famed Duke Kahanamoku. The King had spent some time at The Bay enjoying the surf and teaching the locals the art of riding the waves on a plank. The Flower Power People, the hippies, the Aquarians and New Agers had all made postcard fame at some stage.

Each group that settled at The Bay had brought their own music, which reached new levels of excellence in the creative environment. From country and rock to om and hip hop, the music added to the tourist boom and the district's reputation. Street musicians, buskers, players in pub bands, all went from amateurs looking for a few bob to professionals with a string of dedicated followers. The annual Blues Music Festival brought performers and fans from all over the world. It all seemed far removed from what the early families had seen and heard when they arrived at The Bay.

Indeed, what would they have made of the Aquarius Festival, which for four days in the mid 1960s put The Bay on the front page of almost every major newspaper in the country? The sound was loud enough to waken the dead, so maybe their spirits did tune in when a bunch of long-haired, pot-smoking refugees from the cities staged a local version of America's Woodstock. The festival, held in fields near the town, was billed as a musical fanfare to a new age of liberated souls who rejected most material possessions in favour of free love, improvised dancing, experimenting with drugs, and the consumption of massive quantities of booze.

The conservative locals tried to ignore the invasion but wondered at the stories of wild music and crazy behaviour that filtered back to town. But it wasn't long before they were looking in awe at the massive cash flow the young people generated, and complaints faded, as did demands that the authorities do something to stop such an event happening again. They assumed that after the long weekend of excesses, the worn-out revellers would disappear back to the cities. But the hard-core hippies had found the area as intoxicating as the pot and grog they consumed, and decided to stay.

There were periodic skirmishes with the local police, the council, the town fathers, and a war of words hurled in public forums and in the pages of the press. Generally, though, the local populace retreated in the face of these odd-looking, articulate, educated, self-supporting free thinkers. Some of the locals began to realise that these tribes that were now living among them wanted to coexist, to raise and educate their children under new rules, and to create a better world.

For many of the new arrivals, cash and credit ratings weren't a big problem. They were well educated, had good career skills, healthy bank accounts, and they happily pooled their resources to buy up practically every failing dairy farm in the hinterland and establish what they called communes.

‘Communes, bloody hell, this is a communist invasion,' growled a retired dairy farmer, who was drinking in the pub.

The manager of the new RSL club agreed. ‘Doubt they'll be darkening our doors. They know they're not welcome in town.'

‘Maybe, but their money is,' said Reg, the local real estate agent. ‘They've got money to spend and so have their friends. If they make a go of this it's going to change the whole district. We won't know ourselves in ten years. There'll be people moving here and coming to see what it's all about. That means new money in town. Because let's face it, there ain't much else happening.'

As if to back up his words, two of the long-haired, colourfully dressed intruders wandered into the bar and ordered beers. The locals ignored them but the two men were unfazed. They settled themselves at a corner table and one of them pulled the guitar off his shoulder and began idly to strum. It was low key and the bartender glanced at the RSL manager, who waited to see what would develop to give him fair grounds to challenge the interlopers. But strangely the mood in the bar calmed, voices normally raucous with booze quietened and despite themselves the drinkers all had one ear tuned to the popular folk song.

When the man put the guitar to one side and ordered a second beer, the bartender gave a cheerful grin and asked, ‘You blokes know “The Pub With No Beer”?'

‘Don't tell me you've run out?' answered the hippy, and the rest of the bar laughed as the bartender pushed the beers across the counter and the tension in the room melted. It was like that in The Bay for years to come – humour and music generally defused an argument.

But in the late 1970s and early eighties, violence crept into the idyll. The pushing of hard drugs, the operation of large marijuana plantations by international ‘businessmen' and the rising use of guns changed the peaceful paradise. And while this was not unique to the area, the drug culture became associated with The Bay.

This was the sketchy backdrop Andrew had absorbed. He'd even studied ‘hippy hinterland housing' in first year architecture; the early freeform, experimental and environmental homes in the hills had become icons.

Richmond House, though, had no such claims. It was solid, conventional, but built to suit the climate and lifestyle. It was raised on sandstone foundations to allow airflow beneath the floors and to keep water out during the severe tropical rains and the occasional cyclone. The steeply sloped roof acted as a sail, funnelling the wind over and away, rather than presenting a barrier to be beaten down. The rooms were large and airy, opening onto the verandah in the traditional style, but particular to this house was an attic bedroom that opened onto a widow's walk – a small railed platform on the roof – where the mistress of the home could watch the horizon for the return of her menfolk. Or it was a place of peace and privacy to watch the sunrise over the sea or the sunset behind the peak of Chinamans Hat, or to gaze at the dolphins leaping in the line of crystal breakers.

Andrew had seen a lot of good ideas in the old home, and there was no doubt it had some potential, even though it was very rundown and little had been done to it since it was built. He didn't believe it was significant enough architecturally to be saved, but it had an old-fashioned charm – if you liked that sort of thing. He imagined that it had been built by nouveau-riche settlers with memories of grand homes in the old country. As he studied the building, his architect's eye began to discern other influences: England via empire outposts, touches of Penang, perhaps. The traveller's palms in the garden were the same as those outside the entrance to Raffles Hotel in Singapore. The fans along the verandah, the use of marble tiles and a courtyard with a well that had been made into a fountain smacked of the Raj. Initially he hadn't looked at the house other than as a bricks and mortar investment. Now he could see that thought had been given to the place. And best of all, its gardens hadn't been altered in a century. He assumed there must have been vegetable gardens, some fruit trees, and Holly had mentioned stables or a barn.

He had raised a concern over the wooden structure of the house but it was declared termite free. It had been built of cedar and ironbark, which had been treated well and would no doubt last. When Andrew had pointed out the cost of restoration and maintenance to Holly, she had brushed it aside. She'd had more immediate concerns on this, their first morning of official occupation.

They had picked up the keys from the real estate agent's office as arranged, and driven to the house for morning tea – another Holly picnic. Within minutes of going into the house, as Andrew stood gazing at the shambles of the garden, Holly had rushed out screeching.

‘Andrew, we've been robbed! Everything's gone!'

‘What do you mean? We haven't moved in yet, what's gone?'

‘I had an agreement with Trudy from the real estate place that they'd leave the old furniture, the knick-knacks, the china, all the old stuff. Andrew, some of that stuff was valuable. The antique cedar furniture –'

‘Maybe the agent or the estate of the previous owners found out it was valuable and sold it.'

Holly shook her head. ‘No. There aren't relatives. The house has been empty for years. Some old lady had been renting it with all the original stuff in it. She went into a home. When the council decided it should be preserved, that included the fittings and fixtures.' She was close to tears.

‘Ring up the agent, for God's sake, and sort it out. Here's your first problem,' Andrew said unhelpfully.

Holly glared at him and returned to the house, only to discover that the phone had not yet been connected as she had been promised. She searched for her mobile.

Her anger turned to disbelief and then outrage as Trudy casually told her, ‘Ah, some people came round and wanted to take a few pieces, and we figured you wouldn't want so much old stuff. It's not a big deal, is it?' The sale was complete, Trudy's friendly warmth had evaporated.

Holly struggled to hold her temper. ‘The fact is, we had an agreement, I paid for the contents. You knew I wanted to keep the original pieces together in the house. I think it's outrageous you didn't ask me. Who are these people? They have taken virtually everything. Only the furniture that's too heavy to carry away is left.'

‘Look, it's not really my concern. The couple are Lynn and Stolle, they buy and sell a lot of stuff from deceased estates. If you want any of it, you can probably pick it up in the Sunday markets for a song –'