A Whale

Rhea drove the last part of our family road trip along the NSW south coast to Eden, a former whaling harbour, never a paradise for whales.

It was the summer of '97; we were on a short holiday. Our girls wanted a playground and a beach after a long drive. The coastal reserve we picked was ideal for fun play and giant gums for lunch shade.

The girls chose the slide and followed it with the swings. After their breezy ride, the girls piled onto a see-saw. Rhea and I balanced the ends as the twins lopsided the plank. I hung onto Alina's hips firmly as the see-saw bounced unevenly. Rhea supported Alicja's shoulders to stabilise her swaying body. We shared the parent smile, glad the girls indicated, 'Enough.'

The girls saved their favourite playground thrill, the spinner, a mini-merry-go-round — for last. Miranda supported Phoebe between her open legs, her hands through the sidebars, locked like a seatbelt bracing her sister. The twins, Alicja and Alina, gripped the hand bars around the centre rod and clutched a twisted handful of each other's T-shirts.

I gave the small roundabout a running release, and the girls enjoyed a spinning, dizzy ride. Their hair swirled, and strands of free-flowing locks grazed their smiling faces until momentum slowed it to a halt.

"Again," chorused the twins, Phoebe giggled, and Miranda roared, "Yes."

As Rhea hadn't finished setting up the picnic, I checked the girls were braced before spinning it again. While the girls turned, Rhea laid out our large woollen plaid picnic rug, choosing a grassy, sunny spot. She unpacked the wicker basket and the esky.

With an efficient smile, she set out prefilled ham and cheese rolls for the girls on pink paper plates and a cool homemade orange swizzle. To the side lay fuller salad rolls for Rhea and me.

The girls laid back on the motionless spinner, perhaps cloud-watching, until Rhea called "lunch."

They descended on the picnic like a flock of seagulls. They settled around the rug and exclaimed, hooray and yippee. as their mum added strawberry sherbet to fizz the swizzle.

Rhea carefully passed me a bulging roll; I wrapped my fingers around it to stop the tomato and sliced egg from slipping out. Taking my first delicious bite, our spread-out treats attracted seagulls. They swooped and squawked in their riotous, perpetually hungry flap, intent on scraps or larger treats.

Rhea brushed her nose, and the corners of her mouth turned up as she shrugged and looked at me. I understood my bread roll would have to wait, so I hid it in the picnic basket. I flapped my arms, circling the girls and Rhea on the rug, repeating shoo.

Everyone ate less pestered, though Miranda, Alicja and Alina threw crusts to feed the gulls, making me wave harder. Little Phoebe preferred to stretch the picnic rug fringe.

Rhea handed Miranda a soft blue throw ball and directed the girls to the gum-shaded area as she cleaned the rug and packed the basket. The girls sat in a triangle, Miranda's arms behind Phoebe to help her catch the ball when one of the twins lobbed it in the air. It proved frustrating for our youngest, so the girls rolled the ball to each other.

Meanwhile, I attempted to eat my roll one-handed, losing tomato and egg to the ground as my other hand flapped about uselessly, trying to deter gulls! I recalled my youth; Josh and I teased gulls on the jetty. We knew how to make them scatter or fight over a hot chip! I wolfed my lunch as the seagulls flayed their wings and aggressively dived. While Rhea packed the car boot, I organised the girls in a game of tunnel ball where I supported Phoebe.

Lunch and a break completed, we drove down the coast to Boydtown, a failed trading site that remained trapped in the past, eternally a vision of a settlement never realised. A ghost town before it was a 'town.'

I wanted to visit the historic ruins, a place where dreams never came to fruition. My family walked around the heritage site; crumbling vine-covered walls evoked an abandoned feeling. I liked the tower and the church ravaged by time. The girls preferred the lookout. We trooped up to a vantage point surrounded by a low chain wire fence in a single file. I encouraged the girls to look out to the sea for whales.

Rhea joined the girls; she stood in between the twins and outstretched her arms to bring them into her, closer to her heart as they scanned the water. Standing behind my family, my thoughts drew me inward when I should have looked outward with them.

Whales involuntarily recalled a quick-witted Ruby joke.

However, the pixie splashed through life like a cavorting, guileful dolphin.

My memory surged, and I lacked the will to halt it.

Images streamed powerfully like a wild ocean current.

I recalled Ruby and I hurrying up the Paris apartment stairs. Her neighbours who lived above her dawdled down the stairwell, the Giscard couple, both about sixty. Monsieur Giscard regularly gave Ruby an aged man's hopeful smile. The brunette tease played his dream game and sometimes fluttered her lashes at him.

We often ran into the pair on the stairwell. One evening, we were caught behind them as they lugged grocery bags. Madame, who was plump and sedate, ballooned with packages and filled the stairs.

Ruby whispered to me, unapologetic, "Fat and slow."

We plodded, step by step, behind them. Eventually, we dawdled onto the third-floor landing as they continued up. Ruby jiggled the knob and speedily turned the key to the apartment door. She rushed in, dragging me by the arm and banging the door behind us.

Her hasty fingers missed the hook, and the key rattled and clattered on the wooden floor. Petite, yet she jostled and hustled me from a slumped Giscard stairwell speed to her brunette life in the fast lane acceleration.

Her pushy zest overflowed to me, and I joined her crazy momentum as we cannoned into each other, tangled feet, tripped forward and collapsed on the couch, limbs intertwined. As we bounced and flopped, the ageing sofa creaked and squeaked.

"The local kids call the Madame, une baleine femelle—the whale lady," Ruby added a guffaw and spread her arms wide.

Ruby surprised me, engaging in small talk, very unlike her. I snickered at her quip, then felt guilty. She angled her body into mine and playfully pinched my arm. The minx bounced on the sofa as she launched into a riddle.

"Okay," she chimed, "how do whales have sex?"

I sensed she wasn't thinking of the natural answer, so I winked at her.

"They hump!" her tone solemn before she snickered.

Suddenly, Ruby put a finger to her lips, and I watched her smile become a frown. A brow furrow and the slightest pair of wrinkle creases appeared at the edges of her mouth. I didn't understand this swift, grave expression. Ruby pointed to the ceiling.

"Madame might have heard us!"

Her finger circled before halting to the side of the dangling naked light globe.

"There; the Giscards are right above us; if we listen, we'll hear her bedsprings squeak and a whale moan!"

My eyes popped open in shock. One of Ruby's fingers covered her lips, and another covered mine. We remained quiet until she burst out laughing and dug her elbow into my side.

"God, you are still easy to rib! Go get us a wine," she demanded.