By Aneta Marovich
ON THE morning they disappeared, the day was born into a thick sea mist. It imparted salty dampness to Irene’s face as she descended the uneven steps to the beach. There the mist kept rolling in thin raggedy clumps floating on just enough air current to scale the steep dunes. All the colours were bleached and the usual sounds of water breaking over the reef and sea gull moans, muffled. Irene looked back at the dune to find it gone and wondered whether she would find her way back easily. A figure emerged close to her.
‘They’re gone’, Nancy said.
ON THE morning they disappeared, the day was born into a thick sea mist. It imparted salty dampness to Irene’s face as she descended the uneven steps to the beach. There the mist kept rolling in thin raggedy clumps floating on just enough air current to scale the steep dunes. All the colours were bleached and the usual sounds of water breaking over the reef and sea gull moans, muffled. Irene looked back at the dune to find it gone and wondered whether she would find her way back easily. A figure emerged close to her.
‘They’re gone’, Nancy said.
That was typical of Nancy, not one for padding things out. It was one of the things that drew Irene’s attention to the fierce, passionate girl in her class. Afterwards they had lived their separate lives but kept the connection. On the first morning of Irene’s new life, Nancy appeared at the screen door, her hennaed red hair a soft shining hallo against the eastern light. The cake she brought, sugarless and full of nuts and dried fruit, was a shapeless brown mound on a white plate. Nancy held it with both hands while kicking off her crocs.
‘And what do you think of the place?’
Irene took the cake and gave Nancy a hug. ‘Love it.’
‘Wait till you see all the animal life. And the humans are nice too.’
After a cup of tea, she said to Irene ‘Hope you’re ready to join the battle’. An environmentalist, Nancy called herself, a protector of the local habitat. Those in most urgent need were small birds with a habit of nesting on the beach.
‘We’ve invaded their breeding space, we, the dogs and foxes.’ Nancy’s mouth curled in disapproval; eyes narrowed. When she talked about the birds, their little black hoods, funny hurried walk and perfectly proportioned wings, her face was soft almost joyful. As she moved her arms and twitched her legs Irene could picture her as a little hooded plover flying close to the shore, the wings extended and defined against the white of the foam.
‘They could soon disappear off the face of the earth. We have to save them.’
Irene cut another thick slice of fruit cake and placed a cup of Blue Label Bushells in front of Nancy who talked on.
‘This place is still half wild, that’s what we have to preserve.’
What helped Banksia Bay to remain untamed was its obscurity. Hidden in the bush fronting a stony bit of coast, it was unknown and unfashionable. There was only one dead end gravel road and a rutted car park assigned to the settlement. Covered in mature tea tree the foreshore stopped abruptly at the edge of a high dune. A few home-made tracks led to the beach below where the shore exposed rocks and sand strewn with seaweed and shell grit. Rock pools blossomed with delicate underwater forests, alive with shy, darting slivers of sea life. Rusted remnants of a shipwreck, not yet in their final resting place, migrated in storms from pool to pool. On a high tide the magic was covered over, leaving a strip of sand before the steeply rising dune. People inhabiting Banksia Bay had blown in on winds of necessity, crises and new beginnings. Weatherboard shacks with no fences stood their ground next to smart weekenders softened by bottlebrushes and melaleucas.
It was the untidy, slightly ramshackle flavour of the settlement that attracted Irene when she saw it for the first time at Nancy’s invitation, but it was the roar of the waves crashing against the rocky beach below the dune that made her decide. Her life, now solitary after years of work and children, needed a fresh motive, a new tenacity. The force of the waves will be a reminder of her own dormant strength. Her partner had been a write off absconding with his lover nearly two decades ago. Her adult children lived on other continents. She would build herself a fulfilling existence, principled and out of the ordinary. It will flourish in the salty air of this rugged coast.
The Bush Care group embraced her and took her planting and weeding to inaccessible spots behind the dunes. Armed with a hole digger and seedling tubes, she scrambled through the bushes in pursuit of intruding weeds and inserted pig face, banksia, swamp wattle and sheoak into sandy, bald patches. Sea spurge, wild cats, blackberries and foxes were enemies. The mild-mannered Care members hardened their faces and their hearts in pursuit of them.
And then there were the hooded plovers.
Apart from Nancy’s, every household had a dog. Some several. It was good seeing them roam free across the sand and splash into rock pools on low tide. Banksia dogs were on the loose until an unfamiliar walker appeared. The dogs were called and put on the leads.
The Care group brought in a new rule.
Hooded Plover nesting zone. Keep dogs on leash at all times, the signs warned at each end of a roped off area. Walkers stopped to read. Irene saw the shaking of heads and the unwilling leashing of dogs. The hooded plovers project had its supporters and detractors in Banksia Bay. Jacob thought that Friends were wasting their time.
‘Useless bloody birds. Too dumb to shift their nests further up the dune away from high tide.’
He was waving his right hand expansively while clutching a stubby in a Bulldogs holder at one of their community barbeques. The beer foamed up and crept through the neck of the stubby like a small volcano. It spilt down the neoprene holder and onto his hairy forearm.
‘Watch your beer, Jacob and cut the birds a bit of slack’, Nancy said.
Although at first resisting the change, the locals agreed that the little blighters should be given a go.
On weekends and during holidays when the beach got busy, Irene, Sally and other Care members guarded the plovers’ nesting area where the parents sat on their eggs in shallow depressions near the high tide mark. It took nearly a month before they hatched, then a further month before they could fly. There were only two nests in the enclosure. Most dogs were on a leash now, but an occasional unrestrained pet came perilously close and chased the parents down the beach. The project seemed shaky but despite the odds the two nests and their contents survived. A new sign was hammered into the sand.
Chicks have hatched but are flightless. Please keep off.
Irene could see them through her binoculars, a fuzzy collection of feathers, tiny dark beaks, a smudge of grey on top of their heads. Three altogether. This pair had done well. She made herself her own nest up on the dune, a shelter in the low bushes where she kept vigil. One parent regularly left at low tide and busied itself with gathering food. The other kept the chicks warm. From her observation post Irene watched the continuous movement of the sea approaching and retreating and above, a moving exhibition of shapes and colours—soft blues peering between blankets of grey, sometimes menacingly dark and laden with threats. Sunsets brought the closing act, an occasional sprawling, peach coloured celebration of the day.
They brought to mind events from her past framed by the lingering gaudy sunsets illuminating her suburban backyard. A blackwood table in her Adelaide bungalow, diners replete with food, drink and togetherness. It’s her daughter Julie’s birthday. Alan is in the back garden mourning the end of his first love, Julie with her arm around him. They are both in their T-shirts and Irene thinks they must be cold. She grabs two jumpers and pushes open a sliding door on the way to deliver them, but Julie is waving her away. The Cootamundra blossoms are lighting up the back garden. Her house is full of people. The sliding glass door opens again and the Greek music spills into the backyard. Koula is dancing, inviting others to join her. Both her arms are up and her steps are lithe, sensual.
And more recent scenes: her last conversation with Julie who, immersed completely in her London life hardly asked anything about Irene’s. The Skype call with Alan and family from Abu Dhabi which was about sandstorms and impossible heat. Irene’s grandchildren didn’t talk to her for long, their bonds tenuous and undernourished. Neither of her children mentioned coming back for a visit.
The chicks were now following their parents out of the enclosure, little legs moving as though the birds were wound up toys let loose to test the endurance of their batteries. They were flightless and still vulnerable. When the tides were high Irene hurried to the beach to make sure the nest was still there, undisturbed. On low tides she was in her hideout watching over them. They were nearly out of the woods but the dog incident reminded her that their existence was precarious.
It was the ambling movement on the rocks around Point Lydia that attracted her attention. The colour of their fur blended with the rocks and sand but the sound of barking reached her a moment later. By the time she slid down the dune and reached the firm sand near the water, a pair of German Shepherds was racing towards her. She looked at the spot where the animals first appeared, but there was nobody there. The dogs were close to her now and evidently not planning to stop but raced past her and approached from the back, barking. She turned around and offered them a closed fist in a friendly greeting. The dogs retreated a couple of meters from her and growled, standing their ground. At least, she thought, they are not trampling the nests and devouring the chicks. The growl was getting louder, and she felt fear. The dogs smelled it. The closer one retracted his upper lip, revealing the canines.
The better to eat you with’ she thought.
To her right, running frantically away from the nests, hooded plover parents descended on the hard sand scurrying away. Diversion, thought Irene, still in the grip of her fear. The dogs’ attention switched to the moving birds and they ran after them past Irene who followed yelling.
‘Get back, get back, you mongrels!’
Another more distant voice joined her, a woman calling from the rocks, ‘Nicky, Buddy, get back!’ Her voice pleading at first went down a notch, commanding. The dogs hesitated. The woman called more forcefully. As though they had just had a friendly, casual encounter on the beach, the shepherds wagged their tails and ran back to the owner. With the dogs on leashes now, the woman smiled apologetically at Irene. ‘It’s just a show, they are harmless.’ Irene felt her fright and anger harden and she hurled them at the dogs’ owner like shards of glass. ‘Keep your bloody dogs under control’, she yelled at the woman’s sunglasses. ‘Can’t you read the sign?’
She and Nancy drank the whole bottle of Cab Sav with Irene’s spinach pie.
‘The chicks,’ Nancy said, emptying the last glass, ‘you’ve really taken to them. They’ll survive, don’t worry. Nearly two months now. They’ll be gone soon.’
‘I haven’t seen them flying. They can’t be due to leave yet.’
‘It just happens. One day they are not flying, the next, they’re off.’
The following day the sea mist descended, and Nancy gave her the news. Irene went to the nesting area crawling on her knees, carefully patting the sand around her. There were several hollows that could have been the nest but the one immediately in front of her had a few downy feathers in the depression. That was the one and it was empty. The discovery brought regret, but the physical reaction surprised her. It was an ache that spread from her core to the neck and head. Her facial muscles were moving in unexpected ways and her face was wet. She made no attempt to dry it.
Now that the sea mist lifted, she could see both ends of the beach. The pools in front of her were rippling into life, ibis in the foreground on their Meccano legs were examining the seaweed.
Irene didn’t take in any of that. What preoccupied her were scenes at the front of her city bungalow: the deep green of the veranda floor, bright red of Julie’s suitcase, the sun yellow of a City Taxi pulling into the driveway. The driver is coming out to collect the case and take Julie away. Her daughter steps out from the house smiling into the sunny afternoon. In front of her are roses leaning against the front fence and an ornamental mulberry tree. She looks excited, already only half present. The driver stands by the open car door waiting. Irene turns to Julie and hugs her. They look at each other with affection, a bit longer than usual. Julie gets into the car. Her plane for London is leaving in two hours. She doesn’t want her mother at the airport.
Irene waves, steps back into the house and in the light streaming through the front door notices dust on the wooden plant stand in the corner. She dusts the stand and then the whole house. Julie has probably checked in by now.
An ache starts up in her centre and spreads outwards like a stain. Irene knows it. She gets a road map.
‘Banksia Bay’, Nancy had written ‘might be hard to find on the map. That’s one of the things we like about it.’
Aneta Marovich is the author of ‘Chestnut Street: a Childhood in Tito's Yugoslavia’, a memoir, and ‘Olga’s Secret’, a novel.
‘And what do you think of the place?’
Irene took the cake and gave Nancy a hug. ‘Love it.’
‘Wait till you see all the animal life. And the humans are nice too.’
After a cup of tea, she said to Irene ‘Hope you’re ready to join the battle’. An environmentalist, Nancy called herself, a protector of the local habitat. Those in most urgent need were small birds with a habit of nesting on the beach.
‘We’ve invaded their breeding space, we, the dogs and foxes.’ Nancy’s mouth curled in disapproval; eyes narrowed. When she talked about the birds, their little black hoods, funny hurried walk and perfectly proportioned wings, her face was soft almost joyful. As she moved her arms and twitched her legs Irene could picture her as a little hooded plover flying close to the shore, the wings extended and defined against the white of the foam.
‘They could soon disappear off the face of the earth. We have to save them.’
Irene cut another thick slice of fruit cake and placed a cup of Blue Label Bushells in front of Nancy who talked on.
‘This place is still half wild, that’s what we have to preserve.’
What helped Banksia Bay to remain untamed was its obscurity. Hidden in the bush fronting a stony bit of coast, it was unknown and unfashionable. There was only one dead end gravel road and a rutted car park assigned to the settlement. Covered in mature tea tree the foreshore stopped abruptly at the edge of a high dune. A few home-made tracks led to the beach below where the shore exposed rocks and sand strewn with seaweed and shell grit. Rock pools blossomed with delicate underwater forests, alive with shy, darting slivers of sea life. Rusted remnants of a shipwreck, not yet in their final resting place, migrated in storms from pool to pool. On a high tide the magic was covered over, leaving a strip of sand before the steeply rising dune. People inhabiting Banksia Bay had blown in on winds of necessity, crises and new beginnings. Weatherboard shacks with no fences stood their ground next to smart weekenders softened by bottlebrushes and melaleucas.
It was the untidy, slightly ramshackle flavour of the settlement that attracted Irene when she saw it for the first time at Nancy’s invitation, but it was the roar of the waves crashing against the rocky beach below the dune that made her decide. Her life, now solitary after years of work and children, needed a fresh motive, a new tenacity. The force of the waves will be a reminder of her own dormant strength. Her partner had been a write off absconding with his lover nearly two decades ago. Her adult children lived on other continents. She would build herself a fulfilling existence, principled and out of the ordinary. It will flourish in the salty air of this rugged coast.
The Bush Care group embraced her and took her planting and weeding to inaccessible spots behind the dunes. Armed with a hole digger and seedling tubes, she scrambled through the bushes in pursuit of intruding weeds and inserted pig face, banksia, swamp wattle and sheoak into sandy, bald patches. Sea spurge, wild cats, blackberries and foxes were enemies. The mild-mannered Care members hardened their faces and their hearts in pursuit of them.
And then there were the hooded plovers.
Apart from Nancy’s, every household had a dog. Some several. It was good seeing them roam free across the sand and splash into rock pools on low tide. Banksia dogs were on the loose until an unfamiliar walker appeared. The dogs were called and put on the leads.
The Care group brought in a new rule.
Hooded Plover nesting zone. Keep dogs on leash at all times, the signs warned at each end of a roped off area. Walkers stopped to read. Irene saw the shaking of heads and the unwilling leashing of dogs. The hooded plovers project had its supporters and detractors in Banksia Bay. Jacob thought that Friends were wasting their time.
‘Useless bloody birds. Too dumb to shift their nests further up the dune away from high tide.’
He was waving his right hand expansively while clutching a stubby in a Bulldogs holder at one of their community barbeques. The beer foamed up and crept through the neck of the stubby like a small volcano. It spilt down the neoprene holder and onto his hairy forearm.
‘Watch your beer, Jacob and cut the birds a bit of slack’, Nancy said.
Although at first resisting the change, the locals agreed that the little blighters should be given a go.
On weekends and during holidays when the beach got busy, Irene, Sally and other Care members guarded the plovers’ nesting area where the parents sat on their eggs in shallow depressions near the high tide mark. It took nearly a month before they hatched, then a further month before they could fly. There were only two nests in the enclosure. Most dogs were on a leash now, but an occasional unrestrained pet came perilously close and chased the parents down the beach. The project seemed shaky but despite the odds the two nests and their contents survived. A new sign was hammered into the sand.
Chicks have hatched but are flightless. Please keep off.
Irene could see them through her binoculars, a fuzzy collection of feathers, tiny dark beaks, a smudge of grey on top of their heads. Three altogether. This pair had done well. She made herself her own nest up on the dune, a shelter in the low bushes where she kept vigil. One parent regularly left at low tide and busied itself with gathering food. The other kept the chicks warm. From her observation post Irene watched the continuous movement of the sea approaching and retreating and above, a moving exhibition of shapes and colours—soft blues peering between blankets of grey, sometimes menacingly dark and laden with threats. Sunsets brought the closing act, an occasional sprawling, peach coloured celebration of the day.
They brought to mind events from her past framed by the lingering gaudy sunsets illuminating her suburban backyard. A blackwood table in her Adelaide bungalow, diners replete with food, drink and togetherness. It’s her daughter Julie’s birthday. Alan is in the back garden mourning the end of his first love, Julie with her arm around him. They are both in their T-shirts and Irene thinks they must be cold. She grabs two jumpers and pushes open a sliding door on the way to deliver them, but Julie is waving her away. The Cootamundra blossoms are lighting up the back garden. Her house is full of people. The sliding glass door opens again and the Greek music spills into the backyard. Koula is dancing, inviting others to join her. Both her arms are up and her steps are lithe, sensual.
And more recent scenes: her last conversation with Julie who, immersed completely in her London life hardly asked anything about Irene’s. The Skype call with Alan and family from Abu Dhabi which was about sandstorms and impossible heat. Irene’s grandchildren didn’t talk to her for long, their bonds tenuous and undernourished. Neither of her children mentioned coming back for a visit.
The chicks were now following their parents out of the enclosure, little legs moving as though the birds were wound up toys let loose to test the endurance of their batteries. They were flightless and still vulnerable. When the tides were high Irene hurried to the beach to make sure the nest was still there, undisturbed. On low tides she was in her hideout watching over them. They were nearly out of the woods but the dog incident reminded her that their existence was precarious.
It was the ambling movement on the rocks around Point Lydia that attracted her attention. The colour of their fur blended with the rocks and sand but the sound of barking reached her a moment later. By the time she slid down the dune and reached the firm sand near the water, a pair of German Shepherds was racing towards her. She looked at the spot where the animals first appeared, but there was nobody there. The dogs were close to her now and evidently not planning to stop but raced past her and approached from the back, barking. She turned around and offered them a closed fist in a friendly greeting. The dogs retreated a couple of meters from her and growled, standing their ground. At least, she thought, they are not trampling the nests and devouring the chicks. The growl was getting louder, and she felt fear. The dogs smelled it. The closer one retracted his upper lip, revealing the canines.
The better to eat you with’ she thought.
To her right, running frantically away from the nests, hooded plover parents descended on the hard sand scurrying away. Diversion, thought Irene, still in the grip of her fear. The dogs’ attention switched to the moving birds and they ran after them past Irene who followed yelling.
‘Get back, get back, you mongrels!’
Another more distant voice joined her, a woman calling from the rocks, ‘Nicky, Buddy, get back!’ Her voice pleading at first went down a notch, commanding. The dogs hesitated. The woman called more forcefully. As though they had just had a friendly, casual encounter on the beach, the shepherds wagged their tails and ran back to the owner. With the dogs on leashes now, the woman smiled apologetically at Irene. ‘It’s just a show, they are harmless.’ Irene felt her fright and anger harden and she hurled them at the dogs’ owner like shards of glass. ‘Keep your bloody dogs under control’, she yelled at the woman’s sunglasses. ‘Can’t you read the sign?’
She and Nancy drank the whole bottle of Cab Sav with Irene’s spinach pie.
‘The chicks,’ Nancy said, emptying the last glass, ‘you’ve really taken to them. They’ll survive, don’t worry. Nearly two months now. They’ll be gone soon.’
‘I haven’t seen them flying. They can’t be due to leave yet.’
‘It just happens. One day they are not flying, the next, they’re off.’
The following day the sea mist descended, and Nancy gave her the news. Irene went to the nesting area crawling on her knees, carefully patting the sand around her. There were several hollows that could have been the nest but the one immediately in front of her had a few downy feathers in the depression. That was the one and it was empty. The discovery brought regret, but the physical reaction surprised her. It was an ache that spread from her core to the neck and head. Her facial muscles were moving in unexpected ways and her face was wet. She made no attempt to dry it.
Now that the sea mist lifted, she could see both ends of the beach. The pools in front of her were rippling into life, ibis in the foreground on their Meccano legs were examining the seaweed.
Irene didn’t take in any of that. What preoccupied her were scenes at the front of her city bungalow: the deep green of the veranda floor, bright red of Julie’s suitcase, the sun yellow of a City Taxi pulling into the driveway. The driver is coming out to collect the case and take Julie away. Her daughter steps out from the house smiling into the sunny afternoon. In front of her are roses leaning against the front fence and an ornamental mulberry tree. She looks excited, already only half present. The driver stands by the open car door waiting. Irene turns to Julie and hugs her. They look at each other with affection, a bit longer than usual. Julie gets into the car. Her plane for London is leaving in two hours. She doesn’t want her mother at the airport.
Irene waves, steps back into the house and in the light streaming through the front door notices dust on the wooden plant stand in the corner. She dusts the stand and then the whole house. Julie has probably checked in by now.
An ache starts up in her centre and spreads outwards like a stain. Irene knows it. She gets a road map.
‘Banksia Bay’, Nancy had written ‘might be hard to find on the map. That’s one of the things we like about it.’
Aneta Marovich is the author of ‘Chestnut Street: a Childhood in Tito's Yugoslavia’, a memoir, and ‘Olga’s Secret’, a novel.