Eleven Hundred Sand Dunes

by Helena Phillips

  Two hours later, he woke with another dream. Perspiration was dripping off him, and forgetting Bridey was there, his thrashing woke her. She put her hand to his stomach, drawing back when she discovered her hand was wet. She switched on the bedside light and bent over him, and the dream returned with a vengeance. Mum was standing in the middle of the freeway with a frightened expression on her face. Cars and trucks were whizzing around her, and she began spinning searching for a way out. Just as one car missed her, another caught her from behind, and she was thrown spinning into the air. At that point he’d woken terrified he had lost her forever. He stopped himself from asking Bridey to check she was safe. She jumped up, and went off in search of a face washer to wet.

  When she opened the door again, he was still highly agitated. This stuff was gruelling. His mother had walked in behind her. The only words which would come out were, “sorry, sorry, sorry” because that was what she deserved. But, it was inadequate. Between the two of them, they cleaned him down with a sponge bath, and he felt much fresher and more alert. His mother sat on the bed cradling him for a while as though he were not in his thirties, while Bridey watched. There was no jealousy between these two.

  Gabriella said, whispering into his ear, “It’s alright Sandro. We’re okay. It’s just been a very tough time that’s all.” Bridey started crying and hastily swept the tears away hoping they hadn’t been seen. But they had.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much. You are so good.” Sometimes the words came out, but there was much more he couldn’t enunciate. He felt intensely guilty for his bad temper and was sure he deserved another knocking out. His mother kissed him and went away again, and Bridey climbed in against him. This time, he held her with his good arm while she sobbed. When she was able to control her voice, she said, “I love you so much, Sandro. It’s been horrible without you.” And here I was thinking she’d gone off me. “We’ll be okay. We’re going on a holiday.”

  Nine

  The following morning, the plan was committed to paper.

  A secretary was necessary though, to put it into action because of his speech difficulties. His idea was to allow the Caretakers to take them as far as Cann River. There they would collect a hired vehicle with a driver. It would have been stocked with basic camping gear: a large tent, a small one for Josh, a table, lights, bedding, and cooking equipment. With the desert trip in mind, he was fussy, keen to choose it all himself and have it carted to Cann River from Bairnsdale. Travelling through the deserts of Dubai had taught him much about the importance of equipment for all circumstances.

  The five years of his early twenties he had spent getting rich on both cash and experience were not wasted. There appeared to be little amiss with his mind, just his capacity for speech; a mere glitch. Online arrangements could be managed easily and didn’t require a voice. Food was more difficult to sort, but there would be shops in Mallacoota. During the summer holiday period, (which regularly swelled their numbers to bursting point) the shops were well stocked with a wide range of most of what anyone would need, and winter would simply mean less staff, more locals. He worked on a plan to explain the comings and goings of the Caretakers who looked fairly normal, but could not be relied on to stick to normal human behaviour. Perhaps they could be staying elsewhere, or just visiting, or going bush, or something. The plan was not water tight by any stretch of the imagination. He finally decided it wasn’t his problem.

  It was a reasonably short trip from Cann River to Mallacoota, and it seemed realistic for him to make it that far by car. The trick was to get the Caretakers to put them down in Cann River around the time that the bus would be arriving. It looked like a failsafe plan.

  His mother appeared brighter this morning, and he managed to get her to sit on his good knee while they hugged and made up, without words. She looked over the plan. She said not a word about the craziness, just about the cold. “You will rug up properly Sandro, because if you catch pneumonia, you’re on your own.”

  ***

  Bridey

  It must be the excitement, because Sandro makes good progress with both his balance and voice. The two boys also work together on ‘Return to Study’ assignments. Sandro has emailed the lecturer for leave of absence for him because he’s needed as a Carer. Staff at the TAFE College are very supportive. Josh submits more assignments in one week than he has ever done. Sandro decides to try a couple of nights back at his Town House in Fitzroy.

  Everyone agrees it will work as long as I am prepared to stay with him in case he has a fall or something. This means more for me to do before we leave, but it also gives us time alone, and Sandro is feeling less of an invalid. We sleep on the mattress on the floor, and I shower. Giving Sandro sponge baths certainly elicits no complaints! For me it’s a short walk from there to both Uni and work. The relief of not visiting the hospital is too enormous to express. In the evenings when I work, Josh comes over from my place to baby-sit and is subjected to endless Maths and English exercises, which he doesn’t seem to mind. He particularly enjoys being sent down to Brunswick Street to buy them dinner.

  The plan is for us to travel to Birdsville starting in mid-September. By then, Sandro absolutely has to be able to drive, but he’s also relying on a couple of learners to take on a good proportion of the long, long roads. This is truly scary for me. When it comes to sand dunes all the hard work will be on him. We plan to take our time, having down days when we don’t travel. Josh’s going to miss much of his course, so getting well ahead is essential because we are all determined to support him in starting his Carer’s course next year. He’s full to the brim with potential. He needs space, freedom to be an adult, and for us to believe in his capabilities. When all’s going to plan, he’s good. At regular intervals, his restlessness becomes irritating, and we’re grateful when he disappears; no questions asked. Gabriella’s taken a real liking to him, and he to her.

  I take as many shifts as they’ll give me and also plan a trip to Dandenong to do interviews. Sometimes, when the words are particularly muddled, Sandro writes me notes. His suggestion that I go and stay with his Dad’s next door neighbours is unwelcome. Although they’d been overwhelmingly friendly and inviting when we went to visit them just before the accident, going there without him is an uncomfortable idea. But tiredness, and the need to knock over as many interviews as possible to make up for lost time, wins me over. The train and bus trip twice in the fortnight before Sandro was discharged from hospital, coupled with work, and visiting the hospital each day, have left me shaking with exhaustion.

  The plan is stay at Fitzroy five nights including the weekend, returning Sandro to Gabriella’s after that so he can get to some follow up appointments without putting everyone out too much. The second night together we do some important reconnecting.

  After the sponge bath, Sandro’s lying on his stomach on the bed in the dining room and I’m naked sitting on his hips. He lies completely still. I decide to move things forward with or without his permission which turns out to be a good decision. My hips roll on him until he groans.

  “Is this okay?” I’m timid, unwilling to risk rejection. The silence stretches, but he needs time to process words. Then he begins to roll over, and I’m frightened he’s trying to push me off, but as soon as he has himself on his back, he grabs for me staring up at me as I kneel over him. His hands are on my breasts making me shiver with pleasure and close my eyes.

  “Look,” he says. “I can’t.”

  I smile at him. “Yes you can. You can hold me, and we can touch each other. That’s enough to feel close.” Sandro reaches for me with his hands and smile, one that’s been missing for weeks. He doesn’t try to speak, just loves me, my body absorbing, wanting more but not desperate.

  ***

  The train ride to Dandenong gives me time to think and take stock. Staff at the Migrant Resource Centre are very keen on the project and supportive. Before today, I’ve only managed twelve recorded interviews out of a total of forty. The immigrants’ stor
ies are lengthy, and it’s hard to stop them so I can move on to someone else. They’re so full of emotion about their experiences of settling in Australia and the impact it’s had on their family relationships, that it seems cruel to break off. Not only am I struggling with interviewing, but this is going to take some analysing. I’m not sure I’m up to the task. What do I know about the development of culture in a new generation? The twelve I’ve done still needed transcribing.

  Sandro’s suggested plan for me to stay a night with his father’s neighbours appeals to me now, except for the fact that I’m missing my home and longing for a chat with Homarta. She told me to call her if I needed her, but I’m determined to leave her alone to enjoy her break. Maybe the time at Mallacoota with the others will fill the gap she’s left.

  The day’s interviews are, as usual, complicated by my lack of language and attempts to nut out meaning and feelings the interviewees try to express. Everything takes time and emotional energy, and there’s little of either. On my walk to dinner, fear of tomorrow and having to repeat the gruelling process is compounded by knowing I can’t speak a word of Persian with this couple whose hospitality is so generous. Thoughts of ringing Sandro and getting him to translate as we go along are dismissed when I remember he needs a translator himself. My future career in Anthropology is looking dismal. It isn’t a pleasure when you actually have to do the work of trying to communicate with people of other cultures. It’s gruelling, and I feel incompetent all the time. The thought occurs to me that Sandro might be willing to use some of his excess time transcribing for me. Not only would it give him something to do (and I can’t afford to pay anyone), but it would mean him being able to put in translations as he goes along; in a different colour so the transcripts reflect the actual interviews.

  Imagining him doing it is suddenly embarrassing. He’d be listening to my questions and awkward attempts to follow up on something I’d taken a punt on. Only those who speak English can be subjects, but they often understand English better than they can verbalise it. They have my deepest sympathy. It’s put me in touch with what every day must be like for them, and why some might choose a secluded life rather than tackle it. For them, it’s easier just to talk with people they know rather than face the embarrassment of feeling like a fool. Of course that solution merely propounds the problem for them.

  The smells coming from the front door of Parand and Benham, the elderly couple, immigrants from Syria, makes me want to cry. Once again, they’ve cooked up a feast for me. When asked if it would be alright to record our conversation, for Sandro, they smile and nod. There are many questions about Sandro’s condition which I try to describe in halting English and through physical demonstrations. Heaven knows what they think’s going on. Sandro will tell me later. Maybe. If he’s having a good day.

  Eating there means dining in heaven. I eat like I hadn’t eaten anything for days, which is very unfair to Sandro’s mother as she’s been treating me like a princess, sending food as though I can’t cook at all. But no. It’s because she knows how busy I am. Last night though, I worked and went home half hungry and too tired, to the usual lack of food in my pantry. Sometimes I wonder why I even have a pantry. Tomorrow night will be the same.

  Attempts to sample each of the multitude of small dishes results in a certain amount of stuffing, not at all elegant! In the end, I have to cease and desist or the results could be disastrous. Food is good conversation though. People really understand each other when it comes to sharing a meal. Either you like it, or you don’t. It’s obvious. We all begin to flag. Parand’s work at the kitchen sink makes me feel guilty, but she refuses my offer of help. Clearly her day has been spent preparing this wonderful feast. Benham walks around the house checking windows and locking doors after bedding down the chooks in their pen. When he returns it’s only nine o’clock, but he looks exhausted. My mere twenty five years should meant loads of energy to spare at the end of the day, but the bed swallows me up, sleep capturing me in voluminous arms.

  Breakfast was unusual and delicious. Benham has been making bread in his outdoor oven and by the time I struggle up, the table’s covered in fruits, yoghurt and chutneys with an exotic flavour. Again, I eat like food’s an occasional treat. The positive in that is how happy it seems to make them. They send me off with a packed lunch of leftovers which of course makes me at home in the Migrant Centre. The day’s long and hard. Staggering out from the Hotel at eleven o’clock, there’s a taxi waiting for me. Tomorrow we’re leaving and all this busyness will be behind me.

  The taxi is of course a gift from Sandro. It means that when I reach home I’m able to stuff as much as I can fit into my pack. Jumpers, leggings, two coats plus a raincoat, lots of socks for wet feet, and on Sandro’s insistence, my wetsuit. My parents bought me this towards the end of secondary school. It wasn’t been quite tight enough then, but now it fits perfectly. Still, I have no intention of swimming in this weather.

  The Caretakers are transporting us as far as Cann River. We’re due to leave about 1.15pm from Sandro’s parents’ house to arrive just as the bus is coming into Cann River. The plan is to appear as though we’re alighting from the bus. Josh turns up in the late morning, throws a few things together and considers himself packed. Torrenclar and Flagran arrive, take us by the hand across to Nunawading, and we’re off on this crazy adventure.

  The Cann River part of the trip was tricky, and Josh and I thought it was hilarious.

  It’s a crossroad town to the far east of Melbourne. There, travellers can turn off towards Canberra, make their way to the coast as we’re doing, or continue to Merimbula and on up the coast towards Sydney. It’s set in deep bush with huge gum trees which have been there for decades and decades. Our arrival doesn’t go quite as smoothly as we’d imagined it. The bus is late and we have to lurk in the bush until it comes. Then, when we try to pretend we’d alighted from the bus, the man, who was awaiting us with the four wheel drive full of our camping equipment, can’t make out how we suddenly appear when he hadn’t seen us leaving the bus, and he had watched everyone get on and off. Several vague statements are made. Fortunately, Sandro’s in good form and manages to distract him by examining the equipment and challenging the quality of it, until the driver’s need to defend himself completely obliterates his original concerns from memory.

  Meanwhile, Josh and I buy coffee and hot chocolate, hot chips and cake, re-joining the others to find it’s all sorted. The vehicle’s new and packed full of camping equipment. This is becoming increasingly exciting. But, best of all is a surprise.

  When our driver pulls in, she’s there smiling, and everything else melts into the background. She doesn’t stagger back when I fling myself at her. She holds me against her. Her warmth and affection literally melt me, and along with that, the tension and fear of the past weeks suddenly becomes a thing of the past. We stand together holding each other for ages letting the work of setting up camp go on around us. The driver begins to unpack. Josh and Sandro put up the tents facing one of the great lakes. Well, the driver helps Josh, and Sandro tries to look useful.

  “Go and have a look around Bridey.” Homarta instructs, stepping away to greet the others and receiving a warm welcome.

  There’s a bounce in my walk as I head off along the road in the direction of the ocean. Once out of sight of the camp, I pause to drink in the sounds, the rise and swell of waves, both competing with wind for my attention. A weak winter sun kisses my face, and my heart lifts towards it. The freedom of being able to do exactly what I want comes with a wave of exultation, and I break into running and running eager to get there but not caring about the destination. My breath’s coming in short pants of freezing cold air which I blow out watching it catch in the wind and fly away.

  Soon, the ocean where the Tasman Sea meets Bass Strait appears over the edge of cliffs. Below, is a winter playground. Birds, mostly gulls, but also Pelicans and waders, wheel across the water, and I watch them dip and lift, playing in the wind imagining myself
inside their group. Way out, waves crash against the point, and I long to go there. It’s too cold to be still. Taking in the pools and sand vying with each other for centre stage, I make a mental note to look down on it all as often as possible. There’ll be no jobs, no housework, and no binds on my time, no research, no pressure of any sort while I’m here. It’s going to be exquisite. And then there’s Homarta. Taking the long way home, I discover what a huge camping ground we have, empty of other crazy campers.

  Flagran, of course has lit a fire. From about four thirty onwards this forms the arena of life. Torrenclar doesn’t join us until just on dinner time because he has been playing in the lakes and inlets which surround us.

  Then it begins. Homarta offers massages. Seated on the grass, a little behind the row of chairs, she’s half out of sight. Sandro gets the first offer and while I’m glad for him I’m wanting her to hurry and get to my turn. He’s reluctant. How can he be? What is he thinking?? He pulls out a rug with a waterproof backing from the vehicle and lies down tentatively offering his arm which has been released from the plaster only two days ago. It doesn’t last long. When I look across at them five minutes later, he’s shaking his head. Not in the least fazed by his rejection, she looks across at Josh, and I can’t believe he’s also not keen. Pick me. Pick me! My whole body’s stiff, neck, shoulders and hips are rigid and hard. I’ve been constantly in pain for weeks, but have had no time, money or energy to do anything about it.

  Finally she beckons me over. I go to sit on the rug. She takes hold of one my hands and pulls me down to lie across her lap. I’m a bit stunned by this and embarrassed. There’s usually a massage table. With my head and arms over her huge thighs, and feeling her massive breasts and belly against me, it’s amazing how well I cope. Me, who used to hate the thought of being up close and personal. She begins by covering my head with her two extra, extra large hands. Vibrations, something like a hive of bees attack my scalp and spread immediately down my neck. Coupled, as her ministrations are, with deep warm smells from her body, my head begins to make its way into the folds of her belly and seek hibernation there. But, it’s only a beginning. The others sit in a close group huddled around the warmth of the camp fire talking. No cold manages to penetrate through Homarta’s warmth. Once my head’s finished, she lifts her hands and I swear it begins to float away. The muscles in my neck and shoulders are so rigid that, when she puts any pressure on them, I pull away in pain, but she holds me firmly in place, and I submit, knowing it will help. This gradually eases as her insistent fingers release the knots. She also turns up the heat.