by Susan Duncan
There are still about ten people swimming off the stern of their boats when movement trickles across the water like a gentle breath blown over the top of a hot cup of tea. By the time we all register the change in the weather, a hard and fast wind has blown up out of nowhere and black clouds are boiling over Bayview, in the south. People are yanked on board and the race is underway. The ones that are swimming too far from their boats to make it back are hauled onto Perceverance, the start boat, to sit out the race.
'Jesus! Where did this come from?' I call.
'Concentrate. Just concentrate,' yells Bob.
The boat is knocked hard and we all go flying while Bob struggles to control the tiller. There's noise everywhere. The howling wind, sails cracking loud and sharp like whips, stuff crashing around the cabin. Bob's yelling instructions, Nick, Konrad and I are struggling to control the sails.
'Get back there,' Bob tells my friend, pointing at the stern,'and stay there.'
She stumbles back, grabbing anything fixed to keep her balance, and we race straight up the middle of Pittwater at a forty-five degree angle. At Stokes Point we set for a tack around the marker buoy as a gust hits the boat and the headsail gets wrapped around the mast. Bob is as white as the sails. Konrad skittles forward on all fours like a monkey and tries to unlock the sail. We're heading into a bay where hundreds of boats are moored and we've got no control. About thirty feet from disaster, Konrad manages to untangle the sail and Bob regains control. We round up to chase the fleet across to Portuguese Beach. It's the kind of race that can put you off sailing forever.
The home leg is a hard beat with tack after tack, until it feels like our arms will fall off from pulling sheets (ropes) and winding on sails. Halfway home, the clouds split open and thunder and lightning ignite the sky. Rain pelts down in big, round balls and it's impossible to see through the squall. There's a heavy fog of rain and foam.
When we're about two hundred feet from the finish, the wind drops to a breeze, a vivid red sunset breaks through the clouds and, behind us, the sails of other boats are ghostly in the lilac light.The sound of the boat moving through the water returns to a quiet slush. Out of nowhere little black heads pop out of the water.
'Penguins!' shouts my friend. 'They're lucky, aren't they?'
They dip and dive, quacking with a joy that's contagious, and we all start to laugh.Then, when we look behind us, we see we've won the race.
'God, it's good to be alive,' Bob exults.
Back on the mooring, we pack the boat roughly and jump in the tinny to go to the dock. As we walk up the jetty, my friend turns to me with the light of excitement still in her eyes. 'That was the best fun I've ever had,' she enthuses.
I look at her in disbelief. And then I understand. She thought it was a typical sail. She had no idea what was going on.
'It was pretty good,' Bob says. And he means it. He looks radiant.
'Bit too adventurous for me,' I mutter.
'Gotta have a challenge every now and then,' he adds. 'That's what sailing's all about.'
'Do you know where we came?' Konrad asks.
'We won,' Bob says. 'Barbara won't be happy with that. It'll increase our handicap.'
We troop up the hill and give Barbara a detailed report. 'It makes me feel part of it,' she tells me when I ask her if she's really interested or simply being polite. 'It makes me feel as though I'm out there on the water with you all.'
Christmas unfolds in steamy, overcast days, leaving me feeling like a hot reduction. Mildew blossoms in the closets and settles on shoes, turning them the same mottled green as the spotted gums outside. The faint mossy smell of constantly damp furniture fills the house. On the deck, a film of green mould clings to rails and chairs, the grass grows overnight. It is an indolent time, when too much effort results in too much discomfort to be worth it. It seems incredible to think I've been at Lovett Bay for nearly a year and my second Pittwater Christmas is approaching. So much has changed. So much has happened. And my view of the world will never be the same.
I start making the puddings in the weeks leading up to Christmas Day, to give them time to mature. The kitchen fills with the sweet, boozy smell of dried fruit soaking in brandy. And every time I see someone new arrive at the boatshed, I fly down with the bowl and demand they have a stir and make a wish.
The boys in the boatshed, who are like family now, grab the wooden spoon every time I call in.
'Is there a limit to the numbers of wishes?'Veit asks, his long arms lifting and turning the mixture carefully. 'Or should I repeat the same one every time I stir the pudding?'
His question stalls me for a moment. Why do we always say make a wish? Why not make some wishes? Why shouldn't we be able to make as many wishes as there is time for?
'Nope! There's no limit. Go for it!' I tell him.
In the final days of the second millennium, we are a small group of about twelve. There's Pia and her father Bill,my mother, Marty and Witch, and a few others. We initiate a tradition of bringing together separate family celebrations around the bays, for pudding. And because I am the only person who makes her pudding from scratch, it is decided the Tin Shed in Lovett Bay will be the place to gather.
At 7 am on Christmas Day, Pia gets up to light the Weber for the turkey. It is indicative of Pia's attitude to cooking that she first consults the barbecue book and then counts the exact number of heat beads recommended to cook a ten kilo turkey. She counts them out carefully until there are just four left in the bag.
'Chuck 'em in,' I insist.
'It says forty-two beads, not forty-six!' she says firmly.
'Four won't make a difference.'
'If you were meant to use four more, the directions would have said so.'
She has a point and she's a perfectionist. But it's too late. I've thrown in the extra beads and lit the fire starters. Pia throws up her hands, resigning from the future of the turkey.
Marty and Witch bring prawns, we crack champagne and eat them on the pontoon at the foot of the garden. It's a hot summer's day with the humidity in the high nineties and we cool our feet by hanging them over the side in the water. Except for Marty. He doesn't take his shoes off.
'There are sharks, you know,' he says.
'Yes, Marty, we know. But we'll see them coming. Get your shoes off!'
'Ooooh, well, I don't think so.'
'Jesus, Marty, death's been stalking you for years and he's getting closer all the time. Don't you want to live a little dangerously before the grim reaper gets you?' As I say it, I realise with a jolt that I am feeling strong enough to joke about death.
Marty pretends to think for a while, his cheeks rosy pink with health. 'I see no reason to tempt fate,' he says finally, and turns to go back to the house. 'I'll keep an eye on the turkey.' But we all know he's going for a snooze between courses.
The turkey, when it is pulled from the barbecue kettle, is magnificent. A big, fat, golden bird glistening with juice and tender as a young chicken.
Pia gives me an accusing look. 'Seems all right, even though we didn't follow the directions precisely!' I get the feeling she might have lynched me if the bird had burned.
It's after 4 pm by the time we've waded through the turkey and ham. The Towlers Bay contingent arrives, wearing silly party hats and sillier grins, and our numbers swell to about twenty-four.
Pudding is served, we all search madly for threepences and sixpences, and then, when there are only about eight of us left, we climb those eighty-eight steps and lurch into Barbara's bedroom, where we sing carols until our throats hurt.
When we can sing no longer, Marty stands framed by the window that looks out on the dry-stone wall that was built when Dorothea Mackellar wandered alone through the corridors of the house. He recites Longfellow's 'Highwayman'. It seems that no one moves.
The house plans are finally approved by council just before Christmas and a starting date of April is set for the builders. I agonise over spending the money and ask sensible, steady Bob i
f I am being stupid.
'It's not the best investment you can make but you won't lose money,' he says.
I hold my breath and sign the contracts. All or nothing. As usual.
One morning after taking Barbara a dish of what I hoped would prove utterly beguiling – a gentle, old-fashioned tuna mornay that might soothe a tender stomach – I mention a meeting with the builders.
'I think Bob should be there,' Barbara says firmly.
'Absolutely not,' I reply. 'You've all got enough to do. Please don't even mention it to him.'
'Men tend to listen to other men.That doesn't mean you can't handle it all.You can. But it will be easier if Bob is there. I've only got one bit of advice about the whole undertaking. Never think that you're stupid. If there's something that doesn't feel right, mention it.'
The builders arrive at 2 pm. Bob arrives five minutes later.
'Go home,' I tell him, closing the door in his face.
'Barbara insisted,' he replies, quite unruffled, pushing the door back open. He comes in and helps himself to a cup of tea.
I give up and we all sit down to go through the nitty gritty of money. I keep reminding myself not to sweat the small stuff but it's amazing how hard it is to hold on to thoughts like that when you feel stronger and stronger and you begin to think your life might have a bit of distance in it after all. 'Watch it!' I tell myself silently. 'Don't forget what matters.' Cancer, I suspect, is going to keep me honest with myself forever.
Phil arrives with his bobcat, the builders lob up with their brawn and we are, at last, underway.Even the sun shines briefly and the rain holds off while the new foundation poles are buried. At the end of the day, the front yard is a mess,mud is piled high everywhere and all Gordon's careful plantings have been trampled. It looks like a war zone and I wonder what I have started, how it will all end.
At night, I study the plans intently, trying to visualise the final result. Every so often I find myself looking at the drawings back to front and my stomach gives a flip of fear. Maybe I'm building a total horror and I won't have a clue until it's too late. About three weeks into the project, I notice, for the first time, six heavily inked black dots on the upper storey floor plan.
'What are these?' I ask the builder.
'Poles for the supporting beams.'
'But they're right in the middle of the house.'
'That's how they'll be able to support the beams,' he says, giving me the impression he thinks I'm slow-witted.
'But I don't want them there! I want that all open and free.'
'They're there to keep the roof up. Without them the house will cave in,' he insists.
Duh! Should I feel stupid? No, bugger it. I don't want them and I know I won't be able to live with them: 'If I have to have them, you can stop work now. I am not having six bloody great poles in the middle of the floor! What a joke. Am I supposed to have tables made to fit around the poles?'
'Most houses on the Pittwater have them,' the builder says, getting terse.
'Not this one!'
The builder leaves. The boys look everywhere but at me. They are used to lemon cakes and cups of tea, big bowls of soup, resurrected leftovers from dinner the night before. Any problems are sorted out 'man-to-man' with Bob, although I am always there.
Half an hour later, the builder calls. There is, apparently, a way around the pole problem after all. Reinforced steel beams. Harder for the builders, of course, and that is the crux of the issue.
'Great,' I say, putting down the phone with exaggerated gentleness.
Knowledge is everything. I'd seen a magazine photograph of a house with a vast open space between beams, giving uninterrupted views. I knew it could be done, but not how. I had no idea what was involved but if I hadn't seen that picture I would probably have given in.
By mid-February, Bob's second daughter, Meg, takes leave from work to help her father and Kelly care for Barbara. Barbara needs round the clock attention so the hub of the house moves from the kitchen and verandah to the bedroom. It's Bob's way of keeping Barbara in the loop of family life, family decisions and family fun for as long as possible.
On an unseasonally hot Saturday night in late March, I come home from a dinner party at Michael's on Scotland Island at about 1 am. Bob is waiting on the pontoon in the moonlight. I know as soon as I see him that something's wrong.
'What's happened?' I ask.
'Can you come up the hill?' he says quietly. 'Barbara has died.'
He leads the way up that long, long stairway on a night so bright there is no need for a torch. Occasionally, the thump of a startled kangaroo jolts the stillness. Once or twice, the low moan of an owl floats across the bay.
Meg and Kelly are sitting around the table on the verandah in the cane armchairs. Nicole, Barbara's youngest child and now with two children of her own, is with them. She arrived a couple of days earlier after Bob called her to let her know Barbara was battling. Scott, their only son, is on his way from the United States but won't arrive until morning.
Their faces are pale in the night, but the talk is loud and there is laughter as the kids talk about 'Mum'. The day the budgie died and she hid it in the freezer to bury after the kids went to school. She forgot about it until one of the kids pulled it out thinking it was an icy pole. The day the back of the station wagon flew open and the bassinet nearly rolled out the back. Baby and all. The way the galah she rescued furiously and consistently attacked her even though she'd saved his life.
I leave them reminiscing and go to the bedroom where Barbara lies still, her hands folded neatly, the top sheet turned down and tucked in. I thank her for her friendship and say farewell. I do not ask why her and why not me. They are questions I will never ask again. What is, is.
At 5 am, the nervous energy of despair worn out, the kids file off to bed and I go home. In the morning, the undertakers arrive.
I will never forget standing on the lawn at Tarrangaua that bright Sunday morning as the Water Police boat, carrying Barbara and her family, made its way towards Church Point. Meg still in her pyjamas, Kelly looking out to sea, Nicole leaning against her dad. Scott, whom Bob collected from the airport earlier, stood with his hand on the stretcher. Barbara, I think, was a lucky woman. She'd been surrounded by love until the last and was able to die in the home and environment she loved best. She'd chosen her terms for death and her family had made it possible.
In the afternoon, a small fleet of tinnies noses into the bay. As if in agreement, they travel as slowly and quietly as possible, their wakes streaking the bay with plumes of white. Friends climb the steps to the house. They stand on the verandah and tell stories about Barbara. After a long time, they make their way home, their boats slipping through the still waters of Lovett Bay in gentle ceremony.
A week after the funeral, we learn we've won the Woody Point yacht race series. Bob stands to make a speech on the sloping concrete of the Lovett Bay boatshed where the end of season Annual General Meeting is traditionally held.
For a moment, he cannot speak. Then he raises the heavy wooden trophy high and says: 'For Barbara.'
19
THERE IS A GREAT LOSS AMIDST our little enclave. Barbara was a wise, intelligent woman who steered and supported our lives in subtle ways. Now, there is no-one to run to, to ask 'What is that bird called?' 'Is this a weed or a rare and precious plant?' 'What tree should I plant next to the house?' No-one to idle away an hour or two over a cup of tea and a slice of cake, talking about subjects that once would have seemed insignificant but now enrich each day.
'The glossy black cockatoos are back' she said one afternoon. 'Casuarinas must have nuts.'
And her words turned my walks into an expedition in search of these magnificent big birds with a slash of vivid red under their tails. When I discovered them one exhilarating morning, alerted by the sound of nuts being loudly cracked and the low burble of an almost human-sounding conversation, I stood and watched and tried to remember what Barbara had told me about them.
Then I rushed to tell her I'd seen them and she gave me a loose-leaf folder filled with information she'd collected which I took home to read to better understand the birds.
'How's the little fungi forest going at the turn by the big spotted gum?' she asked another time.
And I became her eyes and feet and searched beyond the boundaries of the track to find her fungi forest. When I found it hidden in a damp, dark gully, a mass of tiered, pale brown mushrooms crenellated like an ancient castle, it felt like a grand achievement.
'The fungi forest is thriving,' I reported back.
'Ah, good. It's such a fragile thing.'
In her unique way, Barbara pushed me to see and understand detail when I'd made a career of skimming the surface. And it meant my life, which was now mostly confined to Lovett Bay when once I'd strutted the world, did not feel diminished. It seemed, in fact, fuller than it had ever been.
One day I said to her that I realised people were wrong when they said we don't have distinct seasons here.
When I see the escarpment foaming with pale pink wax flowers and deep pink boronia, I know it's spring. When the angophoras fizz, we're moving into summer. When the spotted gums disrobe and white ants hatch by the zillions, it's summer. By autumn, the sandflies have given up altogether, mozzies are on the wane, and the leopard moths are whirring along the tracks like frantic helicopters. The midges arrive in autumn, too, so it pays to keep your mouth closed when you're walking. In winter, the westerlies turn clean and cold and lose their toastiness. Seasons don't need to be marked by bare trees or snow on the ground. There's a million signs of change if you look for them.
Barbara smiled at me when I told her all this. It was a small smile but a little smug, as though she felt she'd accomplished what she set out to do.
'So many people forget to open their eyes as they walk around,' she said.
And I am glad I remembered to thank her for opening mine.