After all these years ...

 (Short fiction set in Watsons Bay, Sydney)

‘Hey buddy, wake up. This is the last stop.’ 

These words hang in the ether until the floodgates of reality are flung open, and the surroundings of Eric Singleton’s seat on the No. 325 bus roar back into the forefront of his mind. Opening his eyes, he finds himself to be the last remaining passenger, while staring into the scowling face of the grey-bearded bus driver. 

‘My God, I must have fallen asleep! Where are we?’ Eric asks, glancing at his mobile phone. He sees that it is just before 5 pm and looks out through the tinted bus window. 

‘Watson’s Bay, and you have to get off.’ 

Watsons Bay? I haven’t been here since ‘82, he thinks as he inhales, coming to terms with his situation. 

‘Can’t I just stay on and go round? My flat is back up in The Cross.’ 

The driver shakes his head. ‘Buddy, I’d love to help, but I’m knocking off, so you’ll need to wait for the next one at the stop over the road,’ he says, turning and walking back up the aisle to the front of the bus and collecting his empty lunch bag. 

Eric stands up, exits via the rear stairs, and finds himself looking out across the park towards the ferry wharf, hunkered down on its stumps and, like the needle of a compass, forever pointing back towards the twinkling lights of the city. 

It’s a hot late afternoon in midsummer and the last breath of the day’s nor’easter is carrying the sounds of laughter and conversation from the beer garden of the Watsons Bay Hotel as flying foxes chatter and screech, batting their wings in the gnarled banksia trees scattered between the pines of Robertson Park. 

Just one drink for old time’s sake, he thinks, tucking in his paisley shirt, hitching up his tan chino trousers, combing his thinning brown hair with his fingers and setting off in the direction of the hotel. 

From experience, Eric expects that unlike the beer garden, which is overflowing with drinkers and diners revelling in the warm encroaching evening air, the public bar will be quiet and relaxed. He pushes the door open and is surprised to find that instead of the usual group of young men hunched over the pool table, the bar has morphed into a cafe. He walks up to the counter, where a middle-aged woman with short grey hair dressed in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves is waiting to serve him. 

‘What’s yours, love?’ the woman asks him. 

‘I see the front bar’s been abolished, so I’ll have to settle for a double-shot espresso.’

Eric taps his phone on the POS terminal to pay and the woman addresses the coffee machine which emits a grinding sound, before coughing and hissing as it disgorges the steaming black liquid from its spout and into a tiny ceramic cup. 

‘Much on tonight?’ she asks, placing the coffee on the counter in front of Eric. 

‘Nah, I’m here by accident. I fell asleep on the 325 and because I’m tragically nostalgic, I decided to come in and reminisce. I used to work for the navy over at HMAS Watson back in the 80s.’ 

‘Sounds like you have a soft spot for the place. What do you miss?’ 

Eric picks up the coffee cup, pondering the question. ‘Well, I can’t say I miss the work, but I do miss being a nudist.’ 

The woman looks at him askance. ‘Seriously, a nudist?’ 

Eric looks around and, seeing that the cafe is empty, elaborates. ‘Yeah, on Saturdays I used to go skinny dipping with the other nudies over at Lady Jane Beach. I’d sunbake and swim until Constable Ralph ‘Bingo’ Barnett arrived to spring me for indecent exposure and take me down to the cop shop for processing. I’d spend a few hours in the lockup and then afterwards he’d give me a lift back to the naval base and we’d drop in here at the pub for a few beers on the way. We became quite close, but we lost touch after I got transferred to Jervis Bay.’ 

A bell tinkles as two young women dressed in activewear walk in and line up behind Eric to order coffees. Knowing that nudity is not a subject for polite conversation with these young fry, he picks up his cup and sits down at one of the tables which is covered in breadcrumbs. The woman sees him and after serving the customers, comes over to wipe it down. 

‘Bingo Barnett drinks in the main bar on Saturday afternoons after lawn bowls,’ she says, gathering up the last of the crumbs with a Chux. 

‘Really? I wonder if he still lives in that place over on Cove Street?’ 

‘No idea mate, I just work here.’ 

Eric takes his time finishing his coffee, thanks the woman and walks back outside. The 325 bus is parked in the layover with its lights on, revving up for the return trip to the city. He thinks about running to catch it, but instead, strolls off in the opposite direction towards Camp Cove. 

At the top of the familiar street, Eric is captivated by the sight of a yellow Harvest moon rising above the lights of Manly on the northern shore and casting a shimmering sash across the surface of the harbour. Invisible creatures squeak in the darkness as he walks past the painted timber cottages, with their illuminated interiors framed by the windows and draws in the scent of the star jasmine draped across the picket fences, resplendent in white. 

At first, Eric wonders if he will recognise Bingo’s house, but halfway down the road, under a streetlight, he sees a wooden letterbox with the house number he recalls affixed to the lid, and the memories come flooding back. A light is on in the front room, and he pushes open the wire gate, which grates on its hinges as he walks up the path.

Stepping onto the porch, he is blinded by a sensor light that snaps on, reminding him of the interrogation room at Rose Bay Police Station and a dog yelps in the backyard. Squinting, he searches in vain for a doorbell, gives up, raps loudly on the old screen door and waits. 

After a moment of silence, he hears the sounds of movement. 

‘Who is it?’ growls a man’s voice from inside. 

Eric draws breath. ‘Bingo, it’s me, Eric, from the beach.’ 

With a click, the front door opens ajar. ‘Do I know you?’ 

In the glare of the spotlight, Eric can only make out the partial silhouette of the man behind the screen door, so he kicks off his shoes and socks, tears off his shirt, unbuttons his chinos, and when they drop to the ground, steps out of them and whips off his underwear, which he tosses into a nearby rose bush. He stands stark naked on the porch. 

Bingo’s laughter booms into the night air and after grappling with a set of keys, throws open the screen door, walks behind Eric, slaps a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, and pulls him close. 

‘Eric Singleton, I’m bringing you in, and I’m pleased to say that despite the years, I can see you that haven’t changed a bit.’ 

Robert Carrick

Copyright: Text Robert Carrick; photos cv williams & Wix.

Posts on this SSOA blog are published to showcase the work of emerging writers who meet weekly to workshop stories. The posts comprise some of the responses written in just 10 minutes as a warm up to the meetings.

If you'd like to join any of our groups or are looking for writing classes, contact us at www.ssoa.com.au or email sydneysoa@outlook.com