Innocent in Australia

Squeaky Beach, far away in time.

I was dreaming on an inflatable camping mattress the other night.

In my head I was in Scotland at a music festival with my wife, traipsing through eat-your-shoe, early-evening mud.

I think we were 26, 27 …

We turned a corner and saw a man at the top of a rickety walkway, bathed in a red light that made it look as if he had red wings.

I’d already necked two Es and was buzzing.

At the top of the walkway we joined a crowd waiting for the next band.

My wife reached into her jacket and offered me another E.

“On you go,” I said.

She popped the pill in her mouth and swallowed. I wondered if she’d be sick, or just ecstatic. Were we in love? Yes. Did we cuddle? Yes. Would we have kids one day? Yes – maybe.

I woke in lukewarm darkness, the swell and crash of sea against rocks, wind rippling the tent’s walls, tugging gently at the pegs I’d hammered in, the guy ropes I’d pulled tight.

Wilsons Prom

Our beautiful nylon house – with a kitchen area and a fridge.

My wife was asleep, lying behind me in her sleeping bag, her knees touching the base of my spine.

It might have been three in the morning, maybe four.

I stretched my right leg and pressed my foot against the mesh wall of Son Two’s portacot, trying to see him in the dark with my toes. I got the impression he was on his back in a star shape, just as he’d been before.

Son One’s little hand was in mine – a warm surprise. The last four evenings he’d fallen asleep next to me on his mini mattress but gone walkabout during the night.

Maneuvering on my hands and knees – at times in a state of some alarm – I’d discover him in another part of the tent, face-planting the floor or hunched across a suitcase like a caterpillar. From there I’d put my arms round his middle, hoist him up and humph him back into position.

I realised I’d been falling back in love with my kids, my wife.

Mostly I see the boys at the bookends of the day or in their car seats at the weekend.

And now this …

By morning feeding rosellas, preparing breakfast slowly – is there another way? – on our camp stove.

By evening washing the boys in a sink in brownish dam water, singing songs.

By day filling hours between orange-grey rocks on Squeaky Beach, Sons One and Two with their buckets and spades, digging holes – a Once in a Lifetime, Talking Heads vibe for me, but not in a bad way.

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down, water flowing underground …

Looks nice, tastes awful

Them: my sons; me: their dad; my wife: their mum; me: her husband.

It’s true what they say: you may find yourself in another part of the world, picking sand from rice cakes, from bottle tops, shoes, everything gritty. Crunch.

There’s no point asking yourself how you got here, looking out over Bass Strait, the southernmost point of Australia, to the cold, hypnotic south.

Son Two stirred in his cot and then settled.

I turned on to my stomach. Even in the darkness it was clear something had changed: I’d moved from old-young to young-old; I’d changed gears to something easier.

I felt no optimism for the future, no pessimism for the past.

Only the present, right in front of me, all around us.

Same as it ever was.

This is the last instalment of Innocent in Australia. Thanks for reading and for lots of great feedback over the past year – much appreciated! Paul