Summertime

Chapter One1

I remember the summers. They were hotter then; and the clear blue sky seemed to stretch up and up forever with only the vaguest hint of whispy clouds. The sky was bluer then too, so blue it was almost white with the heat. Those long hot languid summers shimmered like a dream. The air, hot and still, sizzled with the sound of cicadas, lawn-mowers and children’s laughter. The strong almost edible smell of eucalyptus leaves hung heavy in the air and the slightest breeze was welcomed. Shoes were discarded; the barefoot excursions across hot tar and sand tanned soles quickly into toughened leather. 2

I remember the days spent at the beach; the sun scattered diamonds on the sapphire sea as it ebbed and flowed with the tide, sometimes lapping the sand with a gentle wash, sometimes folding over the shore in great rolling breakers. The graceful Norfolk pines, standing along the waterfront with their scaly scented needles, watched over us like tall and silent sentinels. After dipping our bodies in the cool clear waters we would lay down in the warm welcoming sands, allowing the breeze blowing softly over us to cool our salty limbs. We spent time building the most elaborate sandcastles; or searching along the tide-line amongst the sea’s discarded jewels for the perfect shell; or watching the pelicans, so clumsy on land, wheel effortlessly on the rising thermals. 3

I remember the summer evenings; when the heat of the day had reached its energy-sapping height a tension buzzed in the air, along with the mosquitoes. I remember lying in bed on top of the thin cotton sheets, waiting, listening for the change to come. Some nights the change came with a rush and a roar that grew louder as the Southerly Buster whooshed its way into town. Suddenly doors would slam, the overhead wires would sing and wind chimes would ring like church bells. And then the relief would come and sleep would be easy with the raucous lullaby of the cool southern wind crooning its way through the houses. Some nights the change did not come, and sleep was fitful, knowing that the next day would be hotter than the first one.4

I remember exploring the creek behind the golf course with Jason, or Jay as he preferred to be called. We played together every day during the summer. Jay had lived next door since we were babies. I can recall Jay’s unruly mop of curly brown hair that made him look like a cherub;I wore my hair in two long plaits. We had gone to the same school, had known the same group of friends, and had played together constantly. Living next door to each other we had spent as much time in each other’s houses as we had in our own. Jay had a bevy of older sisters but seemed, for some reason, to prefer my company. I had been an only child, until I turned nine and then my baby sister was born. 5

My mother had never shown any objection to our friendship, apparently viewing it as just a short-lived childhood idyll. She was only too pleased to have me out of the house with my sister to take care of. Jay and I had become inseparable; we had done everything together, we had been pirates, robbers, cowboys and Indians, wild animals, Tarzan and Jane. We used to climb the enormous willow tree that bridged the two backyards and imagined the lands we could see from its giant boughs. We would play and plan, dance and daydream in its dappled shade. We built a tree-house together, a ramshackle affair in the broad boughs of the willow that sat between our two yards. Standing at one end of the main platform we could see far over the roofs and yards to the world beyond. 6

Our friendship never seemed odd to us. School mates would tease from time to time, but I was such a tom-boy and I learnt how to skim stones, climb trees, and paint boats, dig for worms, and wade across creek beds as well any of the boys I knew. I could even arm wrestle! When our backyards grew too small for our ravenous imaginations we would slip through the connecting gate into the parkland beyond. Then we would venture down to the crooked little creek with its reedy banks. Together we would watch the ducks raise their young, and the water hens strut shyly over the reeds, or try to fish from the banks. Often we would bring a picnic lunch and feed the ducks. At other times we would be in the water up to our knees catching tadpoles or other little creatures. One time we found a terrapin and brought it home. Of course we wanted to keep it.
“And what are you going to do with it?” asked my mother, who was always the voice of reason.
“We’re going to keep it and feed it and look after it.”
“But it’s a wild animal not a pet, dear, it will be unhappy away from its home.”
“Oh please Mum.” My mother would give in, knowing she was right and that we would soon find out what she meant. Of course she was right, within a fortnight the terrapin began to look listless and sick, so Jay and I decided to return it to the creek. I could swear I heard it cheer as it leapt back into the brackish creek water.7

I remember the old boat Jay and I found down by the creek, we patched up the holes of the little wooden rowing boat and painted it and it soon became our boat. I named it “Zanzibar”, the most exotic name I could think of. Together we would drift down the creek, in our own African Queen, towards the wider river beneath the whispering willows that dangled their fingers in the water. A couple of times we ventured down the river almost as far as its mouth. The river opened up into the bay and fishing vessels were moored at the marina. We would often watch the pelicans fishing at the river mouth, sailing along gracefully like elegant black and white schooners. Then we would take turns to row the little boat back up the river as the sunset reddened the sky. It was much harder than drifting with the current and we rowed hard to get home before the mosquitoes took pieces out of us. As we rowed back, we would listen to the sounds of the river at dusk; the “croooak” of the frogs, the honking sound of the water-hens, and the low qua-qua-quack of the ducks. We’d both be grimy and wet from the day’s excursion; but a blissful exhausted calmness would wash over us as we slept in our respective beds that night. 8

Sometimes on really clear nights Jay and I would lie on an old carpet on our back lawn and watch the stars creep overhead. I could pick out many constellations and name them. Occasionally we would spot a satellite or a shooting star passing high above us. If we began their stargazing early enough, we would make a game of being the first to spot the Evening Star, or just the first star. The first to spot it made a wish.
“What did you wish for?” I had asked once.
“Can‘t tell you, it’s supposed to be a secret.”
“Please, tell me, I can keep secrets, you know I can.”
“Promise you won’t tell.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die. Tell me what you wished for.”
“I wished that I could do this forever.”
“Do what forever?”
“Lie on a blanket and watch the stars with you forever.”
“Really? Even in the daytime?”
“No not in the daytime silly. In the daytime we’d be on the Zanzibar exploring the river.”
“You really think we can do that forever?”
“Yeah, why not? Wouldn’t you like to do this forever?”
I admitted that I would. “But don’t you have to get married and stuff to make it forever?” I asked, naively.
A faint look of disgust crossed Jay’s face.
“Married? Yuk! That’s grown-up stuff. No way… we can just be friends forever. We could have a house together, down by the river. And we can go out on the river everyday and watch the stars at night.”
“I’d like that, do you think it will ever happen?”
“Dunno, I guess it might. We’ll have to see.”