1966, Sydney.
A police inspector drapes an arm over the bare shoulders of a young woman. The woman’s face is hidden under the flop of a wide-brimmed hat. A yellow polka-dot ribbon swings from the hat, tickling the sun-bleached hair on the Inspector’s arm. The arm spans an age gap of eighteen years.
A man spinning clouds of pink candy floss has lost a shoe. Children notice and point. Parents keep their eyes on the prize. Maybe the missing shoe is part of the sell. Maybe not.
The bar across the beach is tasselled with dogs waiting for their men. The dogs pant pant piss. Most of the men piss out of sight. At least three of the dogs will be named Bluey.
A small child runs into the legs of the police inspector with a melting ice-cream in a cone. The Inspector’s navy shorts are dolloped white. The Inspector laughs, wiping at the cream with his fingers. The child’s mother offers the Inspector a red balloon on a long string. He shakes his head, no.
Eucalyptus rubbed between the fingers is a medicament for some. A memory of something lost by others. The woman selling it from a basket promises an end to flies and a future flushed with fortune. New migrants invest handfuls of unfamiliar coins in her augurs.
So we sailed up to the sun. Til we found the sea of green. Try to see it my way. I’m picking up good vibrations. We can work it out. She’s giving me excitations. Smooth tanned feet everywhere drumming to the beat.
Immigrants are surprised by the rain’s vertical nature and its mocking insistence on dribbling where it shouldn’t. Most didn’t pack umbrellas. Those that call themselves locals lie on the beach, face up, and just carry on.
The young woman has never seen so many people on a beach. Has never felt sand so hot. Has never smelt that salty sun oil barbecue sweet. It’s her first time out in a bikini top and a matching mini. She could be on the cover of a magazine.
A police inspector leads a young woman down through the crowds onto the steaming sand. He is holding her hand. Guiding her steps. Picking past the picnickers. Kicking a stray football back to a group of running lads in black shorts. He takes her to the edge of the water. Removes his sandals. Then hers with a grinning bow. He throws them all back up the sand.
The water will be colder than it looks. He lifts her up. She shrieks. He wades in deeper, holding her just above the ocean. The waves crash up to his waist. He is soaked. She is salt sprayed. She is laughing. She has her arms around his neck.
The kiss yokes the Inspector to a murder. The kiss yokes the young woman to the Inspector’s yet to be declared bastard child.
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 