Page 81 of Weekends with the Sunshine Gardening Society
Her father, on the other hand, was awake as she tried to leave quietly.
‘You’re off early,’ he said from the kitchen and she put a finger to her lips in the hope he’d lower his voice.
‘It’s a beautiful morning,’ she said. ‘And our babies are asleep, so I thought I’d take the chance to go for a walk.’
‘And a swim.’ He nodded at the towel.
‘If I feel like it.’ She smiled. ‘Thank you for having them here,’ she went on. ‘I don’t think I say that enough.’
‘You don’t need to say it at all. They can stay forever, if they want. It would suit me.’
He doesn’t smile back but she knows that doesn’t mean anything, because he can appear gruff and be far from it. ‘Taciturn’ her mother called him.
As Cynthia slipped out the back door to the garden and out the gate, the sun was already warm even though it was only six o’clock. By the time she arrives on the beach it feels like it’s at full strength and she wonders how hot the day will become. They’ll need to keep Jordan inside, sheltered.
Some of the men outside the surf club obviously think the water isn’t quite as warm, however – they’re wearing springsuits to go with the surfboards under their arms. As none of them is wet Cynthia imagines they’re talking about whether or not the waves at First Point are worth their time, or if they should go into the park. It’s a gamble, this surfing business: betting on where the waves will be good, taking the chance that they won’t. It’s always been her experience that even if the waves don’t deliver, surfers are quite happy sitting out the back on their boards, enjoying the ocean.
She’s about to pass the group when she hears someone cry ‘Cyn!’ That can only mean it’s Pat.
He’s one of the springsuited and he trots towards her across the sand, a big grin on his face, his hair uncombed and evidence of a beard-in-waiting.
‘You’re up early,’ he says, driving his board into the sand.
‘So are you.’
‘Oh, yeah, well – I usually am.’ He glances towards the surf. ‘A few nice little waves this morning.’
‘When I saw you all there I thought maybe you were deciding whether they were nice enough to stay for.’
His face clouds. ‘So you saw me and didn’t say hello?’
She wants to tell him not to be so delicate, but also has no wish to cause a fight so early in the day.
‘No, I saw a group of middle-aged men, some of whom have pot bellies and no business surfing, standing on the sand instead of going into the surf.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know you were one of them until you called out.’
‘You didn’t recognise me?’
‘Pat!’ she cries, exasperated. ‘I wasn’tlookingthat closely. I had a quick glance. You could have been anyone.’
Now he looks hurt and she didn’t mean to do that to him, so she scrambles to think of a way to make it up to him.
‘Do I know any of them?’ she asks, nodding towards the pack.
Pat had his surfing friends back in the day. They’d hang around the house at night, smoking and drinking, and Cynthia always wanted them gone because that lifestyle wasn’t compatible with the infant Odette’s. Usually Pat would tip them out – but only after a couple of drinks. He was young and she knew he wanted to enjoy being young; so did she. They had made the choice, though, to be parents and in her mind that meant they had to give up some of the activities of youth. She didn’t mind him surfing; it was just everything that went along with it.
‘Probably,’ he says, squinting as if he’s trying to recall information. ‘Blue and Gull and Digger were around back then. Maybe Alby? I can’t remember if you knew him or not.’
She doesn’t remember an Alby, but the others she does: professional surfers without the professional part, so they lived off the dole and camped in Noosa Woods, cracking on to tourists and having a surprising amount of success because they were fit and good-looking.
‘I suppose you think we’re all Peter Pans,’ Pat adds when she doesn’t say anything.
‘I don’t think anything about you at all,’ she says, and is rewarded with another hurt face.
‘Collectively you, I mean,’ she clarifies. ‘The English language has its limitations.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he says lightly. ‘I only speak Surfer.’ He looks wistful then. ‘I wasn’t the most attentive husband, was I?’
Cynthia frowns at the abrupt sentimental turn the conversation has taken. ‘I don’t know many who are. And I didn’t begrudge you the surfing, if you remember.’
