The Bay (49 page)

Buck was at her side. ‘I suggest we all walk to the beach and you speak with the ocean as a backdrop. There's a sandhill just clear of the dunes that can serve as a stage.'

Holly turned to the crowd now gathering around her. ‘Come and see what is one of the most beautiful places in the world, a place that has to be preserved!'

With a cheer, they linked arms and began walking in ragged rows behind the lead group of Nola, Billy, Mitchell, Holly, Kimberley, Ashok and Matty, Tor and Amber. The camera crews dashed ahead to get shots as the marchers came through the shrubbery that bordered the trail, and out onto the broad stretch of sand. Among the crowd teenagers started the chant that was picked up by other protestors, ‘Save Mighty Beach. Save Mighty Beach.'

At the top of the sandhill, with the expanse of pristine beach behind them, Holly was handed a microphone plugged into a battery-operated speaker.

She called for attention, her voice a little shaky but she quickly gained confidence as Tor moved forward and stood at her side. ‘Friends of The Bay.' She paused to allow a ragged cheer. ‘We are standing on land that symbolises all that is good about Beacon Bay. This is a beautiful piece of coastline. It was once exploited, but recovered, and for a long time the community believed it would always be like this – a haven of natural pleasure for everyone to share. Then came the shock of the rezoning application.'

After a scatter of boos, she went on. ‘I have some good news. That rezoning application is dead in the water, dead because this land was stolen from the people of this town. Now lawyers are working to give it back to us.' There was a huge roar of approval, even though very few of those present really understood how this miracle could occur. ‘To make the situation clearer, I would like to introduce this young man to you all,' said Holly as she turned and asked Tor to take a step forward. ‘He is Tor Nilsen, a direct descendant of the Nilsens who helped this area get on its feet a century ago. His family once owned practically all of Mighty Beach.' Applause and cheers welcomed him. ‘Tor has been visiting us only a short while, but in that time much has happened and I would like him to say a few words.'

Tor took the microphone and looked around the crowd before lifting it to speak. ‘Thank you all for coming out here today. I am sure the spirits of Lars and Hannah Nilsen are looking on this wonderful happening with gratitude. They loved this land, this place. Hannah particularly recorded the strength of that love in her diaries, which are still here in The Bay and which I have had the great pleasure of reading. It is not appropriate to go into all the details now, but when she died, Hannah Nilsen in her will left all this land, Mighty Beach, to the people of The Bay. She had one modest request, that part of it becomes a parkland reserve named in memory of her husband, Lars.'

There was a roar from the crowd at this bombshell.

‘Legal documents have come to light that suggest the Beacon Land company has
no right
to Mighty Beach. As Holly has told you, lawyers are going to have to sort it all out, but in my view, today is a day for celebration.'

Applause, cheers, and a brief chorus of ‘Why was He Born so Beautiful' from a section of the crowd delighted Tor, and he gave an exaggerated bow of acknowledgment.

‘Done in true Bay style,' announced Holly when the crowd calmed down. ‘Thanks, Tor. Friends, it may take some time for this fiasco to be sorted out, but I'm sure the
Bugle
will trumpet the news to us as it happens. Thanks again for coming. Now we can all go and celebrate.'

Family and friends rallied around Freda Mann in true Bay fashion when word of her husband's disappearance began circulating. An unexpected visitor to arrive with a bunch of flowers was Bonnie Bitternden. Freda had been an occasional customer at Bonnie's shop and had felt sorry for her when the local paper reported details of the death of her daughter.

When Freda answered the door her surprise at seeing Bonnie obviously showed, but on being handed the flowers, she invited her inside. ‘It's very kind of you, very kind indeed,' said Freda as she put them with others on a table where several framed photographs of her husband and the two of them together were on display. ‘He was such a good husband, and he didn't give a hint that anything was wrong. Terrible things are being said all over town, but I know he isn't dead, Bonnie. Oh, no. He staged this disappearance so he could go away and do all the things he dreamed about doing when he retired. I've always just wanted to sit here and enjoy the life we've got. But not Sam. Oh no,' she said a little bitterly, then wiped away a small tear.

Bonnie sighed in sympathy and patted Freda's arm. It was a shock to hear such a far-fetched explanation of Sam's sudden disappearance. Whether it was true or not didn't matter. If that was how Freda wanted to see it, then so be it. At least for the time being. Bonnie had been through an emotional trauma and knew what was needed.

‘Well, Freda, you're here where you want to be, and you're not alone. You have friends, lots of us, in The Bay and we'll help you over the rough spots ahead.'

‘Oh, I know that,' said Freda. ‘Comforting, isn't it? That's why I never wanted to leave.'

Back at Richmond House, Mitchell and Holly sat together on a shaded garden seat and sipped champagne in a little celebration of their own.

‘You did well, Holly. It was a brilliant idea to brief Tor and give him the chance to reveal details of the will. You ought to go into politics.'

‘You've got to be joking.'

‘I was.'

‘Oh, in that case you can stay, even have another drink. You know what I liked most about today and the events leading up to it? Just how much people power can achieve if ordinary people unite for the common good and refuse to be pushed around.'

‘You're right,' said Mitchell, ‘but it can be a tough call for many folk. Look at the price you've had to pay.'

Holly knew he was referring to the collapse of her marriage and for a minute or two neither said anything, but sat listening to the birds and the distant surf.

‘Yes, we pay for everything in the end,' she said, breaking the reverie, ‘but if we listen to what life is teaching us, we get some great rewards as well.'

Mitchell put his arm around her shoulders. ‘That's true. How well we both know that,' he said softly as their eyes met. He leaned over and kissed her. There was no need to say any more, do anything, think or make plans. The spirit of The Bay would take care of the future.

Tiny Bay Beach looked like an impressionist painting in pinks and lavender, and a glow on the distant horizon signalled that soon the sun would rise. Holly was the only person on the beach, but didn't feel alone as she strolled to a favourite rock where she often sat. Curly and Romany bounded back from a little run to settle beside her, as if sensing that this sunrise merited complete attention. A sand castle with dribbled sand spires and cupolas was still intact, windows lit by long-burning candles inside the miniature rooms. Soon enough it would melt away, but the mysterious sand sculptor, the Sand Man, would return and build another.

She thought back on what a great evening it had been – an unforgettable New Year's Eve party at Richmond House with friends, resident guests and her children, Melanie and Marcus. Mitchell came with his son Tom, and Tor was down from Townsville, staying in the attic room which Holly had made his base whenever he came to The Bay. The younger set had left after midnight for a gig in town, and eventually Richmond House became quiet and peaceful again.

Inevitably, she recalled the same time a year ago when she and her husband had watched the sunrise from a parked car on a hill overlooking The Bay after a long night's drive from Sydney. Had it been only a year? It felt longer.

Holly leaned down to pat Curly and scooped up a handful of sand. She let it trickle slowly through her fingers and reflected on just how much in her life had changed. She had found many new friends, there had been sadness, challenges and great joys, and a new and wonderful sense of personal worth. She had begun to discover herself. Yes, that was what made it a year to remember.

She closed her eyes and said a short prayer of thanks. And when she opened them, the first rays of the sun had splashed the ocean with fresh colours to herald the start of another day, another year, at The Bay.

THE END

Y
OU CAN TAKE CERTAIN STEPS IN LIFE THAT, AS HAPPENS
, set you on a path you hadn't planned, to a place you had never before considered.

At the start of the 1990s I was walking through the days with a heavy heart, an unhappy woman. I had dropped out of television to achieve my childhood dream of writing books. But the key to my dreams had been handed to me at a low ebb in my life. By a series of fortuitous circumstances I had a contract for a novel. I also had a deadline far away in impossible mists. After years of talking about writing a novel I now had to do it. It was a struggle as I tried to write of great love in the dying throes of a mad second marriage.

My children were at high school in India with their dad. They had urged me to break free of this marriage and do what I'd always wanted. It wasn't easy. There were setbacks as pages of the novel were discarded, criticised, and re-written again and again. Good friends stepped in to encourage me and smooth the way. I spent time on a distant property researching, finding inspiration in the outback, meeting physical challenges and trusting my instincts.

Returning to Sydney's trendy Northern Beaches the work came slowly. I was too close to my old home, divided friendships and my husband's new girlfriend. I made the hero in my novel everything I felt my second husband wasn't, creating the man of my dreams on paper.

I took a break to go and see family in Los Angeles. While I was there I met a group of Australians making a film. They were from some place called Byron Bay. Never having been a hippy or a surfie I hadn't heard of it. I confided to them my troubles in writing, in settling, in finding ways to calm my heart and soul.

In unison they chorused, ‘You must go to Byron Bay.'

As soon as I got back to Australia my son visited and I announced we were going north to Byron Bay, the most easterly point on the mainland. I discovered that our former neighbours, Brenda and Jim, had retired there. They told me it was difficult to find a place to rent year round at Byron because in the holiday season the owners wanted high rents or to use the houses themselves. But they knew of one place that was available all year.

A high-powered executive friend who'd had a place in Byron (he lost it in his divorce) told me to speak to Tom, the famed local publican, as he would know what was going on around town.

Jim and Judy, my dear friends from the bush, were concerned at this plan to ‘run away', so they came to the coast with me to check it out. With my son Nick we drove to Byron and stayed at a motel opposite the beach. Together we went and looked at the house that Brenda and Jim had told me about, and my heart sank. Near the railway line, it was old with claustrophobic dark rooms and a flecked pink laminex kitchen. Nick tried to be encouraging. ‘It's got a mango tree in the back, Mom.'

We walked down the road to the Railway Pub and sat at an outside table. I was disheartened. I wanted light, air, sunny rooms, near water. But I had very little money, the advance for the book was modest and my share from the heavily mortgaged marital home had disappeared in paying off a bank loan and the costs of developing a film with Ken Russell. I was told to dream on!

I went into the bar to buy a round and a cheerful bloke dressed in shorts and T-shirt with a large schooner in his hand asked me if I was on holidays. No, looking for somewhere to live, I explained. What did I do? he asked.

For the first time the words fell from my mouth. ‘I'm a writer.' They hung in the air and suddenly I felt terrific. ‘I'm writing a book. I have a contract with a big publisher and I need peace and quiet. I'm looking for somewhere to live – just me. I can't afford much.'

‘I might have a place,' he said. ‘Come back tomorrow morning.' He was Tom, the publican I'd been told to look up. That's how things happen in The Bay.

I walked out with the drinks and said to everyone, ‘I think I've found somewhere to live.'

Tom's wife Catherine hadn't been too impressed with his offer. They had been living in a cabin at the bottom of their five acres while building their new home, and they had no intention of renting it. But she took us to see it anyway.

We roared down the lethal driveway to the little hideaway house. It was a log cabin with floor to ceiling glass doors and a deck overlooking a big dam festooned with blue water lilies. Sunny, airy, private, near water – just as I wanted.

My bush mates gasped and said I wouldn't last six months. It was too quiet, I didn't know anyone in the area except for Brenda and Jim, there would be a zillion brown snakes around the dam and billions of cane toads. With the cabin surrounded by dense bush I couldn't see or hear another living soul.

I took it regardless. The deal was done with a handshake. I was told the cabin had been built as a temporary home revamped from Mexican Mick's old house. It was basic but the ambience was friendly, inviting and romantic.

My retired friends Brenda and Jim offered to give me any help I needed when I moved in. We celebrated with an Indian feast and Jim and Judy drove us back to Sydney as Nick was returning to India. I phoned my daughter Gabrielle, who was heading to university in California, and broke the news.

When I was ready to drive north I decided to leave Sydney at 5 am and get to Byron before dark. What bits of furniture I had would arrive a few days later. I'd never driven much. I quivered at the thought of driving over the Sydney Harbour Bridge from the North Shore. So a seven hundred kilometre drive with my goods and chattels and darling dog Sheila seemed a huge step.

Mum got up early and made me breakfast at four o'clock. There was a howling thunderstorm but I wouldn't be talked out of delaying. I felt a sense of urgency to get to my new home. Mum kissed me goodbye and I promised to find a phone box and call whenever I stopped.

Sheila the schnauzer sat in the back wincing at the thunder and lightning. My thirtieth birthday present of a 300-year-old Imari platter (we were living in Japan at the time) was wrapped in a blanket wedged next to a spinning wheel and every pair of shoes I owned. Before I'd gone two blocks I came across electrical wires blown down, snaking sparks across the road, so I drove across broken branches on the footpath. After Hornsby I hit fog on the freeway. The dawn was dismal.

At midday I stopped at McDonald's and ordered lunch for Sheila and me at the drive thru. We picnicked in clearing showers and I was elated. This was a huge achievement for me. By the time I saw the sign announcing Byron Bay, the weather was clear – balmy – a stunning sunset. I crested a hill and there below were the twinkling lights of a township clinging to the crescent bay and a headland where the lighthouse beam suddenly flashed a greeting.

I drove to Brenda and Jim's house and the door swung open and Brenda stood with a glass of champagne at the ready. ‘Welcome home,' she said.

Concerned that I might feel afraid in the lonely, empty cabin they invited Sheila and me to stay with them, but I decided to camp at my place. That night I curled up on the floor with Sheila burrowed beside me, listening to the night noises – rustling trees, snuffling animals and the creaks of the wood. For a moment I was teary. Then I decided I would cast a mental charmed circle around the house and I would be protected. And for the nine years I lived there, I was.

I came to terms with coping on my own. I had to deal with a carpet snake on the bed in the middle of the night and various other wildlife intrusions, a fox attacking my chickens, a near cyclone, and worries about money. I lived on avocados, mangoes and other fruit that grew on the property and my endless supply of eggs. Brenda invited me over for Sunday lunch and sent me home with leftovers that lasted till Wednesday.

I walked for miles on the beach and I kept to myself. For the first time in my life I was alone and I learned to like my own company. I made a garden, and made new friends – good women friends. I was told Byron Bay was a healing place for women and I grew in many ways. And I wrote and wrote.

My first book,
Heart of the Dreaming
, was a success, and each Christmas after that I produced a new one. Tom in the big house seemed quite chuffed to be able to tell his friends there was a sheila down by the chooks writing books. Every couple of months he and Catherine would share a bottle or three from their cellar with me and it was an interesting trip back down the hill in the dark, often in bare feet, to my bottom acre.

If ever I hit a rough patch I stepped outside the door and scolded myself, thinking, look where you live. How dare you whinge. Then one day I decided to stop waiting for Mr Wonderful on his white charger to sweep me off to his palace. It seemed I was here to stay, claimed by The Bay. So two years ago I bought my own house, moved the chooks and the ducks and Sheila's ashes – she had been with me for seventeen years. I was ready to share my life. And, along came an old friend. It happens like that in The Bay.

The Bay has changed since I arrived, though not as much for me as for the oldtimers. It is a special place and most people living in Byron believe we are led here. It has taught me many lessons. I love feeling part of a unique community. My mother moved nearby, my children stay as often and as long as they can. And I'm about to start my twelfth book. Frankly, I'm afraid to move away. I believe there is magic caught here in the cusp of the Cape, Mount Warning and the hinterland.

It's taken me eleven years to feel ready to write about this place. I hope I got it right. I hope one day you will share it too.

Di Morrissey
Byron Bay
7 September 2001