1966, Sydney.
Janet’s first dinner date was three months before the inquest into Philip’s death on the SS Himalaya. There were several more dates before the inquest. Always on Saturdays. Only on Saturdays.
There was the picnic on the black and green tartan woollen travelling rug under the shade of a narrow-leaved iron bark tree in the Botanic Garden. Janet pressed her chest against the trunk and wrapped her arms around the thick rough bark and wondered how a tree could save itself from fire and drought. Such a tree could teach her things. But fire and drought were the wrong things. She needed water. Oceans. Drownings. Maybe they should have chosen a different kind of tree, another species closer to the harbour?
The Inspector pulled her down onto the rug, told her the tree was crawling with bees, and poured tepid white wine from a cardboard box into two red Tupperware mugs. She sipped the wine slowly, anxious about getting giddy, saying something she shouldn’t. The Inspector lectured her on the history of the grey-headed flying foxes that roosted in the trees in the gardens. Bats, he repeated over and over, shaking his head. They’re just bats. They stink, too. Why do they insist on calling them foxes? They’re really vermin you know.
Janet lay back on the rug and studied the azure of the patchwork sky through the fankle of the tree’s branches. Bats, foxes, she didn’t care. As long as he stayed off the subject of Philip she’d go along with anything. When he’d finished with the flying foxes he lay down on the rug, but stayed several inches away from her, more the way her brothers used to lump down beside her rather than a lover preparing for an amorous move. He pushed a strand of her hair back behind her ear and Janet tingled, a pleasant rush of heat rising up through her breasts and neck. She willed him to do it again, to bring his face over hers, to lean in with his lips. She moved her hand across the blanket towards him. Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe he did but didn’t want to touch her. Either way, he didn’t take up the offer, there was no repeat of the beach kiss, not even a holding of hands.
The following Saturday, the Inspector picked her up so early that her parents were still in bed. His car smelt of leather and petrol and the cupboards in Pop George’s bedroom that no one ever used. He opened the passenger door for her, settled her onto the seat, and adjusted the seatbelt to fit. She breathed in the clean coal tar smell of his hair, smiling. Her stomach fluttered and she wriggled closer in to him as he leant across her. That’s it, he said. Need to keep your pretty face safe. Australian drivers are lunatics. Not to mention the animals on the roads. There was no kiss.
They set off south towards Botany Bay, Janet in her sunglasses with the wind from the open window whipping at her hair, and the Inspector giving a running commentary on every driver that was too fast, too careless, not responsible enough to own a car, or all of these things. She didn’t speak much during the drive. Didn’t need to. She watched him from behind the safety of her sunglasses. Watched his hand firm on the gear stick as he moved up and down the gears, his face tight with concentration as he listened to the engine changing tune. She watched his feet do their magic on the pedals as he braked, accelerated, braked, accelerated. How could anyone learn how to use a clutch? It was all so complicated. She watched him check the mirrors, the folds of his skin in his neck crinkling up and down as his head twisted forward, side, forward.
On Silver Beach, still too early to be busy with sunbathers, he took her hand and they walked across the yellow amber of the sand. He took her hand! Janet kicked at the shells as he talked about Captain Cook landing there on the HMS Endeavour, and how later, Governor Phillip had made first contact with the natives. Another Phillip. Coincidence? Or was the Inspector fishing? Janet moved her fingers in the Inspector’s hand, willing him to change the subject. She pointed at the long-legged birds scuttling through the froth of the waves as the water swept up and down the sand. Do you know what they are, she asked him. He shook his head. I’m hopeless with birds here. Kookaburras, cockies, everyone knows those. But these little grey ones, he said, pointing, down the beach, they all look the same to me. What I am good at, though, he continued, pulling Janet into his arms, is history.
Then his lips were on hers, damp with salt and mint, soft, just the tip of his tongue curving in around her mouth. His hands on her waist, gentle, kind. Not the forceful grasping of Angus in that stinking cupboard back on the ship. No, this was languid, unhurried. Not as passionate as the first one on the other beach, but definitely a move in the right direction. She leant against him, standing on tiptoe in the sand, the gulls wheeling and shrieking overhead. He pulled back from her, cupped her chin in his hands. Looked into her eyes. Not blinking. History, he said again. People and their history.
To be continued.
SANDERLINGS 