Runner up - Senior section
Elizabeth College
The deep water in the bay is still and settled. Waves wash across the sand on the beach down the street, providing an ethereal coastal backdrop to the seaside town. Across the bay, a bright orange Tasmanian sun rises. A new day is beginning. The rocks, that cap the granite mountains hanging over the water, shine and glisten in the morning sun. Staring at the view is a dangerous game; seconds turn to minutes and minutes turn to gaping urban regrets and a burning, incurable coastal desire. Wetsuits drape the fences of the houses nestled between the coastal bushes of the boulevard. Most of the houses on the Esplanade boast new money, with their clean render finishes and classy hypermodern designs. Every house but one – Lindy’s home – where she resides in her eternal coastal getaway, with her husband, Mick. They are elderly, kind, gracious, passionate, purposeful, and perfect. In their own little slice of paradise, she busies herself.
Her days are consumed by the thrill of planning their upcoming trip and the rescheduling of doctors’ appointments. She knows she is sick, and so does her husband. They don’t care. They continue to pack, continue to plan. Their plans are unnecessarily thorough. Their ‘70s caravan is impractically beautiful. It’s as if they know they will never leave.
A letter sits on her pristine, perfectly sanded wooden benchtop. In the top corner of the letter, scribbled in discreet font, are the words “Rural Imaging”. The letter has been on her kitchen bench for days, buried between junk mail and discarded bank statements. She knows the letter is there. She supposes her husband doesn’t know or has decided that ignorance is bliss. Indifferent, she continues packing, continues planning for their trip.
Her hair is long and grey. Her eyes are big and blue. The wrinkles on her face imply wisdom. She dresses in long, flowing floral fabrics and wears thick glasses that enlarge the beauty of her opal eyes. She is frail but tough. Brittle yet unbreaking. Her husband is slightly older than her, yet looks younger. He always assumes the best in people. A thick white moustache arches his lip, but not in a creepy way. He still has a head of hair, but not in a fake way. Like his wife, he is kind, innocent, strong and experienced. And like his wife, he continues to pack and plan, pack and plan.
Their home is gorgeous. Pristine, perfect white weatherboards offset the biblical garden in their front yard. All the work done on the house was crafted by their hands and it shows. No tradesmen working for a cheque could accomplish such a result. It is a work of pleasure, passion, and purpose – the kind only attainable by a special kind of human. Yes, they are those people. The people everyone secretly wants to be. The people everyone envies. They create magic with their hands and their hearts. Their Midas touch turns everything around them into gold. Yet still they pack and plan, preparing for their upcoming trip.
Their vintage caravan is perfect. It sits, omnipresent under a carport covered with breathtaking flowering wisteria vines. Baby blue paint encircles the caravan’s torso, offset by the egg-white donning the top and bottom of their home on wheels. The cabinetry of the interior was beautifully crafted using Huon Pine. Consequently, a honey scent clings to the air inside. The Gordon River’s essence contained in an eleven-foot caravan. Outdoorsy and natural, yet so homely and comforting. Every aspect of the trailer has been impeccably and thoughtfully crafted, a project of great passion and purpose, by the same craftsmanship that built the house. Every week, they upgrade the caravan. It becomes even more impossibly perfect. An integral ingredient in their packing and planning, packing and planning.
She supposes that her kids and grandkids might visit her on the road. Beachside visits, playdates and cuddles that she missed out on after they fled the city and arrived in their beachside oasis. She knows that they won’t make the effort. She knows it will be her same forced drop-in and heartbreaking good-bye that will imprint on her mind like a bad tattoo, but she allows herself to think otherwise. She lets herself dream about cuddles and kisses goodnight, recipes passed on and secrets shared. Her love is boundless. One boy and one girl. Jack and Jill. Hansel and Gretel. Call them what you want. She did everything the right way when she raised them. She moved to the right suburbs. Sent them to the right schools and surrounded them with the right people. They were raised and nurtured by the same touch that turned everything around her to gold. She couldn’t explain what compelled her to move away from them. She knew, on some level, the answer was hidden in too many visits to the doctor, too many scans at the radiographer’s office and too many letters in her mailbox not dissimilar to the one that remained on her kitchen bench. “Rural Imaging” innocently printed into the top corner, a stranger amongst New Idea magazines and council notices, the letter is a constant observer of her incessant packing and his incessant planning.
Today, she sits on her balcony and observes the stillness of the bay. She listens as the waves lap against the sands of the small beach down the street. She forces herself to be aware of the ethereal, earthy backdrop it provides the town. A glimmer in her eye mirrors the shine of the rocks capping the granite mountains across the bay as the bright Tasmanian sun twinkles above them. She knows staring at the view is a dangerous game, but she plays it anyway. Her seconds turn into minutes, but her minutes don’t turn into urban regrets and coastal desire. She doesn’t succumb to the allure of the roads not taken. She won’t allow herself to dwell on the past. There is too much future left in the world to consider days gone by. As soon as the word future crosses her mind, she feels the letter on her counter burn a hole through the wooden benchtop that’s sanded to perfection. She sees her baby blue caravan frozen in time and her kids making the trip down to her, but she can’t see them, talk to them, feel them, hug them, love them and her eyes sting.
A “G’day, darl,” from inside the house cuts through her thoughts like a warm razor on hot flesh and her husband is awake. She breaks eye contact with the dangerous, provoking view. She rises from her seat. A busy day awaits her. So much to pack, so much to plan.
