The Beach House

After all the chaos and confusion, it was nice to walk quietly for a while, taking in the wide expanse of the ocean leading off to who knows where, the stars above who knows how far away.  The waves lapped at her ankles like old friends as the sand caressed her feet.  She closed her eyes, drinking in the stillness, letting it wash through her, cleansing her mind.  She could hear the gentle thud thud thud of the music far off in the distance, but she ignored it, taking another step down the beach. 

She followed the familiar curve of the sand as it wandered along the coast, drifting further and further away from the house.  She wouldn’t think of it.  Wouldn’t think about the party, her friends, the poorly chosen dress.  She wandered past the spot where she first learned how to swim.  Over there has the best waves for boogy boarding in the summer.  Remember the huge sting ray we found near that outcrop several years previously?

The beach ended, but she knew the small path leading through the bush beside the beach.  She would ride her bike down this path as a child, imagining she was riding through an enchanted forest.  Over there was where she had constructed a cubby house (more of a lean-to really) out of the branches and logs she found lying about, decorating it with pretty leaves.  She had been convinced that there were fairies living in that clearing with all the mushrooms when she was about seven.  Yes, think about the fairies.  Imagine them dancing through the air to a melody you can almost hear, their colourful dresses shining brightly in the night air.  Stop remembering the uninvited plus-ones, the alcohol, the broken lamp.  Keep following the path.

The path opened up on to a long, empty stretch of road.  The asphalt felt rough against her feet, but lacked the searing heat it had when she would walk back down this street, ice cream in hand as the sun blazed in the sky.  She first learned how to drive on this open road, long enough to forgive her for accidental accelerator pushes instead of brake ones, wide enough to condone any wild swerves as she got the hang of steering.  When she had been especially little, she had been amused by all the different colours and styles of houses lining this street, some the traditional brick bungalow, others painted the blue of the midday sky, or yellow like the dandelions which grew thick beside the road. There were fifties fibros, and one house which looked as if it came straight out of ancient Greece!  More houses had sprung up over her lifetime, her favourite being the pale grey one with the roof that bulges up and down like the waves.  It would be nice to live around here.  Then she wouldn’t have to think about the gate crashers, the confrontation, the booze-fuelled overconfidence.  A nice, quiet street, yet close to both beach and shops, and plenty of good neighbours.

She turned the corner into the main shopping strip, although “main” was a relative term.  This place would be buzzing with life as the summer tourists came down to escape the big city.  The smell of seafood would waft out of the fishmongers, attracting people like flies to the daily catch and the best fish’n’chips on the planet.  Over there is Uncle Ned’s ice cream shop.  He wasn’t really her uncle, but all the kids called him that as he constructed each one’s favourite iced treat with a smile, usually singing some song in his low, hearty voice.  And over there’s the cinema where everyone huddled on the not so fine days, locals and seasonals alike, being captivated by whatever film was showing, the crunch of pop-corn and the crackle of chip packets filling the air in the small room packed to capacity.  Oh, and she couldn’t forget the local grocers which had provided her with a summer’s worth of work and spending money ever since she was first old enough to get a job.  Think of all the summers spent chatting with customers, hearing about their families and whatever they did in the remaining ten months of the year.  Ignore the thought of the broken glass, the screaming, the blood.

She walked down to the jetties from where the dolphin watch boats would depart on crystal waters as the migration brought the dolphins closer to the bay.  She dreaded what she had to do next.  Everything had been going so well, just her and her friends.  She’d chosen this location for this week because it was quiet, calm, familiar, and away from the chaos of the normal schoolies destinations.  Everything had been fine and under control until the others had decided to throw a party.  She should have refused.  She should have said “no”.  It was her parents’ beach house and she should have known better.  She could never forget the confusion, the fear, the lack of phone reception.

She took a deep breath and walked up to the police station, the only building still lit up.  She opened the door and stepped inside, the thud thud thud of her heart in her chest as she approached the officer at the desk.  She was there, alone and scared, in a slightly too small party dress, caked in salt, sand, and dirt from her walk. 

“I am here to report an incident,” she said, “up at my parents’ beach house on the other side of the bay.”

One things for sure.  Her parents will never let her borrow their beach house again.