arrived on
the tug boat suddenly shot out of his seat, his eyes blinking wildly, as he sought
out the source of the rumour.
On Beach Road we carried on as far as Big Bay where only half of the cruise ship
people left the bus. The Englishwoman was one of them. Her husband slumped back in
his seat, his sports jacket flung back over his head so he could sleep. When I stood
outside the bus and looked up at the windows I thought all the other tilted faces
were asleep. Most as it turned out were reading.
I led the party of stragglers down to the beach. The fur seal nursery is about a
hundred and fifty metres from the car park. After five minutes the complaints started.
The shelf was too steep. Shingle kept getting in their shoes. In grim silence we
soldiered on, until the Englishwoman piped up. She said somewhat discouragingly
that she had been to the Galapagos Islands where she had seen over five hundred fur
seals. Five hundred! I was simply hoping old Bess would be there to save the day,
a scarred veteran of the sea with an obliging manner and a vanity for having her
photo taken. The rain returned and that sent everyone running for the bus.
On their way back to the port everybody came alive. One older woman actually began
to clap her hands. They were on their way back to the cruise ship, back to civilisation
and maybe even lobster. Hereafter, everything smacked of haste. Their swift exit
from the bus. The quick handshakes. The words that held no meaning given between
the gritted teeth of a smile. Yeah, nice to meetcha. You bet. Hang on in there. They
didn’t want to know us. From their great balustrade they hardly noticed us in our
cramped lifeboat waving our white handkerchiefs.
That evening was to be our surprise, our crowning effort, our big hurrah. As the Pacific Star sounded her foghorn, along Beach Road in dozens and dozens of parked
cars we tooted our horns. We tooted and tooted until the white sugar lump melted
into the pale horizon.
Along the beach fires were kicked out. People began to move away. Cars started up.
To the last there were a few drunken toots, then all was quiet. The night reared
up. We heard a wave roll up the beach and the pebbles roll over.
The next day the fliers with their flora and fauna information floated soggily across
the bar. A few days after that the first of Dean Eliot’s test tubes of saltwater and
fresh air were washed ashore. We were back to life as we had known it before the
visit of the cruise ship. We were back to our gaudy selves and that would have been
that, put it all down to experience, had not a strange thing happened.
The night the cruise ship put out to sea and for several nights after that, along
Broadway, they arrived like moths in the night—women my mother’s age, a few younger
ones as well, come to find themselves in Alma’s crowd scene painted over the derelict
shop windows.
The portraits were based on sketches Alma had done more than forty years earlier.
There was one of my mother sitting on a set of porch steps. She looked so young.
Painfully young. She must have been in her twenties. In those days she was married
to George. In addition to my mother I counted twenty-five other faces. Now the original
sitters of these paintings wrapped themselves up against the night and walked slowly
with their faces turned to Alma’s portraits. Some who had already spotted themselves
in previous visits went directly to that section of the crowd. It was a big mural;
as I’ve said, I’d asked him to produce something that would stretch over three shop
windows. During the following days the paintings drew a lot of attention and comment.
I watched from my shop door. It was fun to observe those women who were seeing it
for the first time; the way they crawled along the pavement with a deliberate shopper’s
eye. Some had to dig around for their glasses. These women would lean closer and
try on different faces. It was like someone rifling through a lost property box. Word
must
the tug boat suddenly shot out of his seat, his eyes blinking wildly, as he sought
out the source of the rumour.
On Beach Road we carried on as far as Big Bay where only half of the cruise ship
people left the bus. The Englishwoman was one of them. Her husband slumped back in
his seat, his sports jacket flung back over his head so he could sleep. When I stood
outside the bus and looked up at the windows I thought all the other tilted faces
were asleep. Most as it turned out were reading.
I led the party of stragglers down to the beach. The fur seal nursery is about a
hundred and fifty metres from the car park. After five minutes the complaints started.
The shelf was too steep. Shingle kept getting in their shoes. In grim silence we
soldiered on, until the Englishwoman piped up. She said somewhat discouragingly
that she had been to the Galapagos Islands where she had seen over five hundred fur
seals. Five hundred! I was simply hoping old Bess would be there to save the day,
a scarred veteran of the sea with an obliging manner and a vanity for having her
photo taken. The rain returned and that sent everyone running for the bus.
On their way back to the port everybody came alive. One older woman actually began
to clap her hands. They were on their way back to the cruise ship, back to civilisation
and maybe even lobster. Hereafter, everything smacked of haste. Their swift exit
from the bus. The quick handshakes. The words that held no meaning given between
the gritted teeth of a smile. Yeah, nice to meetcha. You bet. Hang on in there. They
didn’t want to know us. From their great balustrade they hardly noticed us in our
cramped lifeboat waving our white handkerchiefs.
That evening was to be our surprise, our crowning effort, our big hurrah. As the Pacific Star sounded her foghorn, along Beach Road in dozens and dozens of parked
cars we tooted our horns. We tooted and tooted until the white sugar lump melted
into the pale horizon.
Along the beach fires were kicked out. People began to move away. Cars started up.
To the last there were a few drunken toots, then all was quiet. The night reared
up. We heard a wave roll up the beach and the pebbles roll over.
The next day the fliers with their flora and fauna information floated soggily across
the bar. A few days after that the first of Dean Eliot’s test tubes of saltwater and
fresh air were washed ashore. We were back to life as we had known it before the
visit of the cruise ship. We were back to our gaudy selves and that would have been
that, put it all down to experience, had not a strange thing happened.
The night the cruise ship put out to sea and for several nights after that, along
Broadway, they arrived like moths in the night—women my mother’s age, a few younger
ones as well, come to find themselves in Alma’s crowd scene painted over the derelict
shop windows.
The portraits were based on sketches Alma had done more than forty years earlier.
There was one of my mother sitting on a set of porch steps. She looked so young.
Painfully young. She must have been in her twenties. In those days she was married
to George. In addition to my mother I counted twenty-five other faces. Now the original
sitters of these paintings wrapped themselves up against the night and walked slowly
with their faces turned to Alma’s portraits. Some who had already spotted themselves
in previous visits went directly to that section of the crowd. It was a big mural;
as I’ve said, I’d asked him to produce something that would stretch over three shop
windows. During the following days the paintings drew a lot of attention and comment.
I watched from my shop door. It was fun to observe those women who were seeing it
for the first time; the way they crawled along the pavement with a deliberate shopper’s
eye. Some had to dig around for their glasses. These women would lean closer and
try on different faces. It was like someone rifling through a lost property box. Word
must
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