The moon disappeared behind dark clouds and the silver
path that had stretched from the horizon to Ian’s feet, went with it. The night
sky remained backlit by the moon but his view of the bay and the black rocks
jutting out of the sea, faded. His eyes adjusted. The white ripples lapping at
his feet marked the shoreline. He turned, walking back to the bonfire.
Following a New Year’s Eve tradition he’d lit it, his
heart filled with foolish hope, trying to recapture the past. A way to remember
the times they’d welcomed in the New Year; he, Phyllis and their three boys.
Now all gone. Phyllis dead, the boys chasing careers overseas. He remained a
silly old fool, stoking a bonfire and instead of being happy each log he threw
on seemed to represent another lonely year stretching ahead.
e walked up
the sand to the beach house, crossing the lawn, springy and coarse underfoot.
Only kikuyu grass survived the salt wind and hot summer. His reflection in the
glassed French doors showed he’d lost weight and his legs were beginning to
bow. He smiled at his reflection, now the image of his father. Only his white
hair, stiff, ridden with salt from his afternoon swim, was different.
From the old sideboard he poured a nip of whisky in a
good sized glass. A relic of his marriage the cabinet was being held together
by umpteen layers of paint. Underneath was probably an oak treasure but it
would remain undiscovered until his children disposed of the family Bach. Any time it rained, usually in the August
holidays, he and Phyllis would get the boys to paint the sideboard as an indoor
activity. The present coat of apple
green, now chipped on the corners, revealed the many layers. He ran his hand over the smooth top picturing
the boys wielding paint brushes; the newspapers spread over the linoleum to
catch the drips; and he and Phyllis on the verandah, out of the rain, sipping
iced tea.
He shook his head, sniffed and wiped the tip of his
nose with the back of his hand. Clutching the glass and bottle he walked back
to the bonfire and sat on the log, left by the last storm. He’d collected
enough driftwood to keep the fire burning until well after midnight.
The moon rose above the cloudbank and its silver path
returned, kissing wave tops across the bay. A sense of peace, like a warm
blanket, settled over him. He sipped his whisky straight, like a true Scot. A
lifetime ago he’d left those shores and his family. He’d never had a day of
regret – until today. Loneliness was awful.
His neighbor Jonathan
arrived carrying a drink, a silly hat perched sideways on his head and a wide
smile of greeting. “Happy New Year, Ian. Can I share your bonfire?”
“My pleasure.” Ian patted the log. “Take a seat. Is the
family coming down?”
“Later.” The young man sipped his drink. “Emma’s
putting the littlies to bed. I thought I’d keep you company for a while. Nice
night isn’t it? No wind, moon out.” The
neighbor gestured to the west. “There’s a lot of bonfires further round the bay.”
That’ll be the tourists.”
“How’s your year been, Ian? We haven’t seen you here during
the holidays. Do you come here when we’re all at home?”
“No.” He had to look away. He eyes filled. “I love
Tata Beach but I’m getting older. Driving over the Takaka hills isn’t for
sissies. Phyllis used to whip the car around the corners as if it was a casual
drive on a country road. I’m more
cautious.” A cloud blocked the moonlight
again. Jono’ wouldn’t see his tears.
“Any family coming for the holidays,” Jonathan asked?
“No, they’re all overseas, doing things.” He wiped his
cheek and took a mouthful of whisky. It left a smoky after taste and warmed his
gullet. The fire sparked as a breeze stirred the base. He shivered. Flames
climbed the logs, crackling the salt. Smoke swirled and smelt of the sea. The
heat toasted his front and face. The
whisky warmed him inside.
“Hey up! I can hear a car. Are you expecting visitors,
Ian?”
“Nah. It’ll be someone lost and turning around in my
driveway.” He didn’t bother to look.
Moments later a shout sounded from the bank and he
turned to see the lights on in his house. Cheeky buggers. Wandering tourists
had no shame. They’d walk into anyone’s home to ask directions.
He balanced his glass on the log and stood, facing his
Bach. “Get out of my house you cheeky buggers. If you’re lost just go back the
way you came.” His voice cracked. He wasn’t used to shouting, or talking much
for that matter. “And don’t pinch anything either.” It was all old but it was
his - and Phyllis’. The memories were worth more than the value of the
furnishings.
The intruder, features shadowed by the house lights
behind, stepped off the grass onto the soft sand. Persistent blighter. “Go back
the way you came. This is a dead
end.” He pointed toward the distance
bonfires. “That way - is the way out.” Jono moved to stand by his side. The approaching
figure stopped. Ian’s pulse increased. Perhaps he should be afraid? He looked around for a piece of driftwood to
pick up.
There was something familiar in the man’s stance.
“You silly old bugger,” the man said, approaching. ”I’ve
come halfway around the world to spend New Year with you and you’re waving your
arms about, telling me to go to another bonfire.”
The voice broke the spell. The moon came out from behind
a cloud and lit his son’s face. The New Year suddenly promised hope and
company. His eldest pointed to the clouds. “I’ve brought a tin of paint in case
the weather breaks. I thought it was about time we gave the old sideboard
another coat. Sam and Josh will be here
tomorrow.”
****
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