Mary's Place

Mary's Place

Even after all these years I still catch an image of Mary. An early
morning sun catches the mangroves and casts its shadows upon the sand
and I imagine it dappling the sand-castle which together we had built
so painstakingly. Within the nearby swamp I can hear the frogs
searching incessantly for food, and I know that they huddle away in the
undergrowth to escape their enemies, the majestic ibises, which stride
self-importantly through the quilt of sunlight and shade. Nearby, a
placid surf rumbles in and then retreats. Peace nestles upon the waters
as the Norton River feeds its fish-life to the place both Mary and I
knew so well, Nortonville. Such a mild town is Nortonville, awakening
only when visiting nudists use nearby Stony Cove, and more conventional
tourists flock to the beaches for just a few, short summer months. But
this was April, a pleasant autumn month ? and Nortonville sleeps
on.

It was one such April, fourteen years ago, that I first met Mary.

Mary ? an eight year old charmer with a zest for adventure and a zeal
for life that would have done any parent proud, was about to enter my
life. I was lonely that day as Roger and I kicked an old sock, weighted
with discarded orange peel, along the beach. My kick landed the sock in
the surf at the edge of the beach and Roger, advertisement for every
breed of dog there ever was, romped to retrieve it. When he was slower
than usual to return, I looked up to find him talking to a stranger in
the shallow surf. A pair of green eyes twinkled in a sea of freckles,
and I knew immediately that I had found a friend.

Mary's parents were holiday-makers from Victoria who had come to
Queensland, "the state of unending sunshine". Mary had discovered the
sea on this, her first morning in Nortonville. I sometimes wonder if
two souls are ever fated to reach out until they have found each other.
Certain it is that for me my loneliness vanished that morning.

Mary's idea of a good time soon became mine. We'd scarper from our beds
each morning before the adults began their day. We'd meet on the sand
near the old jetty and build a sandcastle ? not just any sandcastle
mind you, but a treasure house of dreams. The first to arrive would
build exactly half and not a grain of sand more and, if the other were
late, would splash through the shallows to wash away the grains that
collected without fail in all the little crevices of our girlish
bodies. There she would play until the other had completed the castle
and was free to join her in a pleasant romp through the puddle holes
left by the retreating tide.

Mary and I spent many pleasant hours during these first holidays,
building our castles and talking unceasingly about what our lives had
been and what we planned they would become. That the advancing tide
destroyed our castles as quickly as life's experiences were later to
destroy our dreams mattered nothing to us, as with child-like wonder,
we continued to weave our magical world around us. It was Mary who so
often decided that her future lay in space exploration as an astronaut,
or in medicine where, as a superior doctor, she would banish the
ravages of disease from a royal household. I was always second in these
fancies, the "straight-man" of her dreams, the shadow against which her
light would burst forth in glorious splendour. We dreamed in a world
unused to romantic innocence.

Such a world was never innocent, though as children, we were totally
unaware of the evil around us. Perhaps our nights might have been less
restful had we known that drug dealers were active in the area and had
been receiving much attention by the very policemen who smiled at us in
the street or on the sand as we went upon our way. Half heard
conversations among the adults held our attention for short snatches of
time but soon vanished as other more interesting exploits pushed their
way to the fore of our consciousness. What story of drug peddlers could
compete with the news that ten bottle tops of a certain soft drink
could earn us a magnificent fifty cents? A policeman's quietly worded
question about whether we'd seen any strange boat making its way in the
early morning light out through the break-water never caused us to
think of incipient evil. When we'd occasionally spot a fast-moving
cutter beyond the surf line making its way through the early dawn
light, we thought nothing of it or its possible reason for being
there.

And then there was always Kenny. Older than us by a dozen years with a
whiff of hair that never broke free from his forehead, Kenny was a
source of fun for us. We tormented and teased him mercilessly. And
Kenny always responded in the same way. He would suddenly appear when
our discussions were at their most intense and try to join in. He would
offer up some suggestion in which we had no interest and then, tired of
our rebuffs, he would shout at us in frustrated anger and storm away
along the beach. It was then that Mary would follow at a safe distance,
pretending that she really did care for his attention before rushing
away to giggle and chatter anew with me. We were cruel, but
instinctively we knew that Kenny would have been happier with other,
older friends.

And so the years went by. Each year Mary's family and mine came to
Nortonville. Each May Mary would be first to send an email message to
announce, "We're coming Thursday!" as though this was some event of
importance the world should know about. On the first Friday in each May
a half-completed sandcastle met me as I plummeted through the bracken
to find my friend, and each time there would be a chortle of delighted
laughter to greet Roger and me from the shallow surf at the foot of the
beach. And each May we continued to tease Kenny but with decreasing
success as he grew more morose and his temper grew more
uncertain.

But Mary was a restless soul. The Norton River entered the surf not far
from our meeting point. Its pools and back-waters presented a special
challenge for here were to be found small fish to chase, or juvenile
crabs scuttling nervously away from our questing fingers. Always we
were careful about venturing near deep water and tentative in our
efforts until we knew what mysteries the water hid from our view. We
knew well the dangers of this quietly flowing river. Eddies gave way to
small whirlpools to snare the careless tourist; currents lapping tree
roots in blissful innocence camouflaged hidden undertows and rips
threatening disaster. Child-like, we knew of these things and chose to
ignore them. They were not part of our world.

It was a May approaching my thirteenth birthday that my life changed
forever. Racing to find the half-built castle, my spirits rose to find
what I expected and the usual set of footprints leading away towards
the shallows near the river mouth. Unhesitatingly, I completed the
castle putting special care into its construction. It was to be a fairy
castle safe forever from marauding goblins and home to the Golden
Prince and his lady. Then I set off along the footprint trail to find
my friend.

There was an unusual amount of activity on the river but I thought
nothing of it. Men were always rushing about in boats. But there was no
sign of Mary. The trail petered out at the river's edge. I searched and
called but to no avail. All I was left with was the one set of childish
footprints leading in one direction, as they had always done, towards
the water. There was no Mary to mock the strident cries of the gulls;
there was no small voice challenging the surf to knock her over or
retreat. There was only the empty heart of a mystified soul left behind
to wonder and in due course to grieve.

Six years have passed since Mary went away. Six lonely years where
searing sorrow has given way to a dull sadness that increasingly I find
it easier to ignore but which never leaves me. Each May the pain surges
in intensity and then ebbs as May gives way again to June and July.
Other friends, even lovers, have entered my life and fulfilled all of
it but one small corner. This corner is "Mary's Place" and has never
been subsumed by the fierce passions of daily living. Each May some
inner force urges my return to Nortonville, to watch the sands and look
for sandcastles. And each year I see, always distant, the figure of
Kenny, now thickening at the waist but with a reserve never shown in
bygone years. Unable to speak to him, I muse that he too has lost Mary;
that I remind him of her each time I appear in Nortonville and he
avoids me in the only way he knows to find peace.

This year as May approaches my mind turns again to Mary and my heart
responds with a yearning that I know will not be sated until once again
I tread those shores. This morning I joined the rising sun and sat to
watch its splendour as it rose from the ocean's vast depths.
Nortonville is so peaceful at this time of day at this time of year.
From the corner of my eye I glimpse hurried activity once again at the
Norton River end and I am reminded of that day six years before.
Something within me breaks, there is an unexplained flood of emotion,
and an irrational knowledge that something is about to happen. With
fear and subdued rejoicing I approach the group in time to see a bundle
of white bone placed reverently in a canvas bag. For once Kenny does
not wander away. He watches every move the men make and his face is
pale.

No one needs to tell me - after all these years, Mary has at last come
home. But Kenny's haunted face worries me and I try to speak to him. He
turns to go but I face him on the sand and search his wretched, guilty
face. Not a word is spoken until suddenly he breaks down and cries out
in a fear-filled groan, "I didn't mean it! She taunted me! I just
wanted to touch her and she laughed ? she laughed at me!"

No longer is Mary's fate a mystery!