We are driving away from Canberra. M asks if we are going to see the desert.
‘No, we’ll see a lot of bush.’ I say.
‘The countryside. Outside the town. Where there are a lot of trees.’
‘You mean forest.’
‘No, the bush is not a forest.’
‘Yes it is.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘No.’ And then I go into an insistent and ludicrously idealised description of the Australian bush. I talk about the towering, terrifying, cathedral of bush I remember from when I was a child. Like most things we know when we are small, it was a landscape unlike anything I have known since. I know that’s life – not landscape – but I fill it out for him anyway and he is impressed. This will not necessarily turn out to be a good strategy of mine.
When we were in Sydney we walked past some native Australians doing aboriginal dances and posing for photos. I told M these were real native Australians. He laughed and laughed. I couldn’t convince him. I am ham-fisted with the lexicon. I don’t know in what context to use the word aboriginal or if I can use it at all. I don’t know what any of it means or how I am meant to describe it to him.
I was not very comfortable standing there alongside rows of tourists pointing at the native Australian dancers so I dropped it. M and I walked away, he still shaking his head at me like what did I take him for. They were just people with stuff painted on them.
Now a few days later we are driving down the coast to the bushland and beach (Me: ‘Not seaside. Beach’; M: ‘Yeh. Seaside. I know.’) where I spent all my summers as a child. It is fantastic to be out of the city. We have the road to ourselves.
The sky is just everywhere. When the sun is high like this and the sky is as big as it is, you could be flying. I say to my sister who is driving: ‘…it can’t be that it is bigger. It must be that it is just more…’
‘You have more days like this,’ she says.
This one is a corker – a beaut. It is autumn and the temperature is 24 degrees (Celsius). The sky is polar blue – gemstone blue – a rude raw blue. Bigger than church. And like I say, it’s everywhere.
We both point at a spilt mess of milky cloud on the horizon. The only interruption in the sky. Some residue of vapour above the bush in the distance.
‘See?’ we both say as though that illustrates our point.
After a day of this we arrive at my Aunt’s house on the coast. My sister and I have not been here in over twenty years. I get out of the car and search for the key hanging on a stringy bark. I pick my way over the ground, the leaves are inches thick. Prickly things grab and dead things disintegrate under my feet. The key is perfectly camouflaged against the hairy old gum. The bush sighs and whispers all around and there is not a house in sight, just this rusty bit of fence hanging from grey old tree posts.
There’s a whip bird somewhere. Something else makes a knocking call. Giant ferns spill orange fruit out of their centres. The gumtrees are perfectly branchless until the canopy way, way above us. I wrestle a bit with the padlock. The car goes through and I am left behind in the quiet to shut the gate. I pull apart the barbed wire fence pretty easily to climb back through to the car. The house is still a five-minute drive through the bush from here.
M is pushing himself up in his seat and looking all around.
‘Wow,’ he says, ‘wow. Wow.’
Half an hour later we are on the beach. We walked down from the house through the bush. From the sand you can hardly see a single building. The sea roars at us. The bush and rocks, the seaweeds and caves are all colours. There is not a soul in sight.
‘Why…?’ M prepares to ask – not knowing where to start. ‘Why don’t we live here?’