Tigers on the Beach Read online

  ‘Bugger the refinery,’ Reginald says. ‘Bugger them all.’

  ‘But they promised they wouldn’t hurt the environment,’ I say.

  ‘That’s like a dog owner promising you his dog won’t crap on the beach!’

  ‘We’d better go. She’ll be back any minute,’ I say. ‘I wish we could make a copy of this.’

  Xander holds up a memory stick. ‘I already have.’

  ‘Where did you get that?’ I ask.

  ‘I found it under Grandma’s bed.’

  Dad has put the memory stick in his computer and printed the document. There are dozens of stories about Grandpa. Some are sad, some are funny, and some are just the everyday things that people do when they enjoy being together. This is what Grandma has been working on alone in her cabin. We all read it. It’s nosy of us, but we feel entitled. The official secrets act no longer applies.

  ‘Did you know about Grandpa and Grandma on the island?’ Xander asks Mum.

  ‘No. I did know about the Port Argus Naturalist Society,’ says Mum, ‘though they didn’t mention it often.’

  ‘I like these stories,’ says Xander.

  ‘Do you think she’ll mind us reading them?’ I ask.

  ‘We should probably tell her,’ says Mum.

  It is getting dark when we go to Grandma’s cabin, only to find she is not there.

  ‘I think I know where she is,’ I say.

  There is a full moon and the waves lap gently. All five of us – Mum, Dad, Grandma, Xander and me – are sitting on the beach, looking out towards Herring Island, the small lump of land in the middle of the bay. There are six of us if you count Grandpa in his urn. Grandma is sitting in the spot where Xander and I first saw her.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m being difficult,’ says Grandma. ‘I feel so angry all the time and I just can’t bear it. All I want to do is yell at the sky and curse.’

  ‘Maybe you should,’ says Mum.

  ‘What good would that do?’

  ‘Well,’ Dad says, ‘it might be better than waging war on possums.’

  ‘What is it about the possums, anyway?’ I ask.

  Grandma sighs. ‘Just after we were married, Reginald planted two alder trees in the back garden. They were saplings when he put them in. One of them was for me, and the other for him. He said we’d be able to watch them grow together. Do you remember those alder trees, Georgia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They lasted for years and years until the possums arrived not long ago. Six little possums can destroy an alder tree in no time at all. They eat off all the leaves and the tree dies.’

  ‘That’s because it can’t photosynthesise,’ says Xander.

  ‘I know that, Alexander,’ snaps Grandma. Then she checks herself. ‘Xander. Sorry. I should learn to call you Xander.’

  ‘It was horrible to lose Dad,’ says Mum. ‘We all feel it.’

  ‘Of course we do,’ says Dad. Mum picks up the urn.

  ‘What are you doing, Georgia?’ Grandma asks.

  ‘I think we should release Grandpa’s ashes right here on the beach,’ says Mum. ‘The place is obviously special to you.’

  ‘Not this place,’ says Grandma. ‘Not here. A dog might crap.’

  Grandma takes the urn and sticks it back in the sand. ‘I could have said so many things at Reginald’s funeral but I didn’t. I talked about going to the blasted shop.’

  ‘Funerals are always difficult,’ says Dad.

  Grandma sniffs. ‘I could have read a story he’d written. Anything would have been better than what I said. In the whole history of the world, has there ever been a worse funeral speech?’

  Mum holds Grandma close. ‘If not here, where do you want to scatter the ashes?’

  Grandma points. ‘Herring Island.’

  ‘That could be problematic,’ says Dad.

  ‘I know,’ says Grandma.

  ‘The reef around it is deadly,’ says Dad. ‘I suppose we could hire a helicopter, although we might have trouble landing.’

  ‘We would,’ says Grandma. ‘And frankly I don’t like the idea of chucking Reginald’s ashes out of a helicopter. They’d be blown to kingdom come by the propeller.’

  We all sit in silence, except for Xander.

  ‘3.1415926535897932384626433832,’ says Xander.

  ‘I was terrified of the reef around Herring Island,’ says Grandma. ‘The navy once thought about using the island for training, but even they decided the reef was too dangerous. And yet each weekend, Reginald and I would chug out to the island in our motorboat, on a mad zigzag course. We never received a single scratch from that reef, even though it had smashed other boats to pieces. Reginald said he knew where to go because of the colours over the water, but I could never see them. I couldn’t see the auras that he could see. It was a gift.’

  ‘Actually, I know someone else who can do that,’ I say.

  ‘Whom?’ Grandma asks.

  ‘Xander.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ I say.

  ‘Xander, can you see auras?’ Grandma says.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he says.

  A cold wind blows off the sea.

  ‘I think we should go to Herring Island,’ I say. ‘We should take Grandpa to his proper resting place. And we should do it as soon as possible.’

  It’s decided. Dad, Mum, Xander, Grandma, Grandpa in his urn and I will make the trip to Herring Island in the morning. It seems only appropriate that we go in Grandpa’s favourite boat.

  Seabirds call to one another about whatever it is that birds discuss first thing in the morning. The weather forecast is for fine conditions and no storms. The sea is calm when we set off in Grandpa’s aluminium boat. The boat hasn’t been used for a while, though it’s still in good condition because Grandpa maintained it scrupulously. Dad has recharged the battery, filled the fuel tank and checked the engine. We have a fully charged mobile phone just in case Xander’s powers fail him and we crash into a reef and have to ring for help. Nathan and Marika know about our trip to Herring Island. They both think we’re crazy, but they’ll look after things while we’re gone. Because Dad doesn’t trust the weather forecasts, everyone has brought extra clothes.

  The boat is just big enough to carry five people and an urn full of ashes. Dad and Xander sit aft, Mum, Grandma and I sit near the bow. In her orange buoyancy vest, Grandma looks like a giant wacky ball. We’re travelling slowly, puttering along at less than three knots. We pass a floating zip-lock bag.

  ‘Horrible things,’ says Grandma. She wants to pluck it out of the water but Mum holds her back. I notice that Grandma is wearing a little bead bracelet and I ask her where she got it.

  ‘Marika bought it,’ she says. ‘To get rid of that spell she put on me.’

  ‘The evil eye?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are you wearing the bracelet if you don’t believe in the spell?’ asks Mum.

  ‘It can’t do any harm,’ says Grandma.

  ‘Move back please, Grandma,’ Xander says.

  ‘I prefer to stay here.’

  ‘You’re too heavy. It’s unbalancing the boat.’

  ‘Don’t call me fat!’ snaps Grandma.

  ‘He didn’t,’ says Mum. ‘He called you heavy. And Xander’s right, Mum. You should move back. Please.’ Grandma does as she is asked.

  ‘And I’m sorry for sticking wacky balls on your back,’ says Xander.

  It is so unlike Xander to apologise unless he is made to do so that I nearly fall out of the boat in shock.

  ‘What did you just say?’ I ask.

  ‘3.141592653589793238462643383,’ says Xander.

  ‘Perhaps he should be sent to a special school,’ whispers Grandma, as loudly as you can whisper.

  ‘Xander is happy at the local primary,’ says Mum.

  ‘But what will he be like when he gets older?’ asks Grandma. ‘Mr Krongold says there’s a very good special school in Carlington. Xander might be better off there.’


  Mum sighs. ‘I wish you’d stop talking with Mr Krongold.’

  ‘Did you know there’s a special school in Carlington?’

  ‘Yes, Mum. But we’d prefer not to send Xander there. He’s happy where he is, and he’s doing well.’

  Grandma folds her arms crossly. ‘Then why do you want to send me to Park Lake?’

  Mum and Dad look surprised.

  ‘You mean the nursing home?’ I say.

  ‘It’s a terrible place with a stupid name,’ Grandma says. ‘There’s no park and no lake.’

  ‘Doris, we don’t have any plans to send you to Park Lake,’ says Dad.

  ‘Stanley Krongold told me you’d say that. He’s on the board of directors.’

  ‘Mum, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Mr Krongold said you’ve put me on the waiting list.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ says Mum.

  ‘He showed me the papers.’

  Everyone is quiet for a moment. All we can hear is the chugging of the outboard motor. Mum puts her hand on Grandma’s knee.

  ‘Mum, I don’t know what Stanley Krongold has told you or shown you, but we’re not sending you to Park Lake.’

  ‘You goose, Doris,’ says Dad. ‘How could you believe Mr Krongold? He lies like a carpet. And why didn’t you mention it to us?’

  Grandma scratches her nose. She looks sheepish, not that sheep scratch their noses.

  ‘It’ll be about real estate,’ says Mum. ‘With Stanley Krongold it’s always about real estate. He wanted to upset you and make life difficult for everyone.’

  ‘I bet he’s not just after The Ponderosa,’ says Dad. ‘He’s probably after your house on The Escarpment as well.’

  ‘I suppose I should have realised that,’ says Grandma.

  ‘Yes,’ says Dad.

  ‘Perhaps I am a goose.’

  ‘You’ve had a lot on your mind,’ says Mum.

  ‘Stanley Krongold is a rotten orange bastard,’ says Grandma. ‘I’ll start a campaign.’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ says Dad. ‘I think most people already know that Stanley Krongold is a rotten orange bastard.’

  Xander cuts in. ‘Could everyone be quiet please? We’re coming to the tricky part.’

  We’re moving as slowly as possible. The twisted trees of Herring Island come into view. Xander studies the surface of the water and puts his hand on top of Dad’s, which rests on the tiller. He guides him, so that we weave a meandering course through the gaps in the reef, marked by colours that no one but Xander can see. As we approach the shore we see streaks of black on the otherwise golden sand of the island.

  ‘Wretched refinery,’ Grandma mutters. It sounds more aggressive than when she says, ‘Wretched possums.’

  We land Grandpa’s boat. Xander has brought us here safely. Now it’s time to do the right thing by Grandpa.

  Grandma leads us along a path amongst the tea-tree. It takes us to the opposite side of the island. Even after so many years, there is evidence of Grandma and Grandpa’s work. The hut that was the bird hospital is intact, though the corrugated iron is red with rust. The trestle table is there, as are some old buckets and ancient grey pieces of cloth. Not far away are the rocks that Grandma described in her story. Sadly, there are still birds caught up in the oil.

  ‘Poor thing,’ Grandma says to a cormorant that is beyond help. It can barely lift its head. I look across to Crab Point, where the oil refinery stands. We’re always being told how much the company that runs this refinery cares for the environment. It’s the sort of lie people like Stanley Krongold tell every day.

  Grandma has decided to sprinkle the ashes a few metres from the hut, into the sea. This will be Grandpa’s proper funeral, without the pressure of onlooking relatives who really aren’t all that interested, or a little fountain that piddles endlessly. It is just the five of us with Grandpa. It’s easy to tell the good Grandpa stories here. No one mentions his uncanny ability to walk to the shop every day.

  Xander tells about the time we went on vacation to an old goldmining town in Gippsland. The town was dotted with slagheaps, slippery piles of stone left over from the mining. When no one was looking, Grandpa ran straight up a slagheap then slid down on a piece of cardboard. He’d invented a new sport. Xander and I joined in. Our trousers never recovered, but it was a great day.

  I tell about how Grandpa had an incredible memory. He never forgot a birthday or a joke. And I tell the first joke I ever heard from Grandpa. It’s about a man who is walking down the high street with a penguin on a leash. A policeman asks him, ‘Where did that penguin come from?’ The man replies that it just turned up on his doorstep one morning. The policeman tells the man, ‘Well, you should take it to the zoo.’ Two days later, the policeman spots the man, who still has the penguin on a leash. ‘I thought I told you to take that penguin to the zoo,’ the policeman says. ‘I did,’ said the man. ‘And he enjoyed it. So today I’m taking him to the movies.’

  It’s not a brilliant joke, but we laugh. It feels good to laugh. It’s what Grandpa would have wanted. I even say what Grandpa said about Grandma on the last picnic the family ever had together. I told Grandma that Grandpa married her because he thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world. Xander pulls an ‘ick’ face, which is fair enough.

  Dad talks about what a good teacher Grandpa was. Grandpa taught Dad to question everything, including weather forecasts, and never to trust the word of a major oil company. Mum’s story is about how Grandpa was good to all animals, even the snake that turned up in the bathroom one day.

  Grandma’s speech is taken from some of the stories she typed on her computer. It’s a perfect speech, funny and sad and gentle all at the same time. Then Grandma unscrews the top of the urn and sprinkles the ashes. The waves break and the seagulls screech.

  ‘Thank you, Reginald, for the joy and the love and the laughter,’ says Grandma.

  It’s an ideal funeral. I sometimes picture my own funeral. I’ve always thought it would be very spectacular, since I will one day be in show business. My coffin would rise up over the heads of everybody and then explode and rain down glitter. But now I have second thoughts. I’d be just as happy with a funeral like this.

  A grey cloud covers the sun. As we walk back across the island we feel the first raindrops. By the time we reach the boat, the rain is coming down hard and the wind has swung around to the south. It’s a cold, harsh wind that makes the sea angry. It’s turned from blue to black, with a fierce swell. There’s a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder. The five of us huddle together on the beach, wondering what to do next.

  ‘What time is it?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Six o’clock,’ says Dad.

  ‘How long do you think the storm will last?’

  ‘I don’t like to make uninformed predictions. I’m not the weather bureau.’

  ‘Are we stuck here?’ Mum asks.

  The sky lights up with brilliant veins of pink.

  ‘Yes,’ says Dad.

  Together we move the boat up the beach to shelter beneath some trees. The wind howls and the rain pelts. Xander starts to freak out. He’s reciting numbers quickly and softly, so that they sound like a mantra. Grandma’s grey hair is plastered down her face. She takes Xander by the hand.

  ‘Come with me,’ she says. ‘Come on, Xander. Hold on.'

  We follow Grandma and Xander.

  Rain drips through two holes in the roof. We huddle together on the collapsed trestle table. It’s now nearly nine o’clock and the rain still falls. The wind whips at the corrugated iron walls of the old bird hospital. There’s no light, and we’re doomed to spend the night here.

  ‘I do enjoy these meaningful family outings,’ says Dad.

  There’s a lightning flash and a roll of thunder so loud that it shakes the iron walls. Xander yells his numbers. He’s genuinely scared.

  ‘We used to have hurricane lamps,’ says Grandma.

  ‘Did you and Dad ever spend the night here?�
�� Mum asks.

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Grandma.

  ‘89793238462,’ says Xander.

  ‘Calm down,’ Grandma says. ‘It isn’t the end of the world.’

  ‘433832795028,’ says Xander.

  ‘I know a story about the end of the world,’ says Grandma. ‘It’s called The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and it was one of your grandfather’s favourites.’

  Grandma collects her thoughts then starts telling us the story of a man called Arthur Dent and his alien friend Ford Prefect and how they manage to escape from the earth just before it is destroyed by aliens called Vogons. Grandma does the voices of some of the characters. Xander stops saying numbers and listens to Grandma instead. In the story there is a robot called Marvin, who is always depressed. Grandma does his voice best of all, and Xander laughs, despite the storm. Grandma is being funny. We all laugh as she continues to tell the ridiculous story about dogs swallowing fleets of spaceships and a company that builds designer planets.

  It’s past midnight when the rain stops and the wind dies down. We emerge from the hut to look up at a clear night sky, with a thousand glittering stars.

  ‘It would be a shame if the Vogons destroyed the earth,’ says Mum.

  ‘A terrible shame,’ Dad agrees. ‘Do you think there’s life on other planets, Adam?’

  I don’t offer an opinion, but merely shrug.

  ‘You’ve been very quiet,’ says Mum.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Is it something to do with your girlfriend?’

  ‘I don’t have a girlfriend anymore.’

  Mum puts her arm around me. ‘I’m sorry, darling.’

  ‘It’s okay. We weren’t really suited to each other.’ Grandma is preoccupied with the sky.

  ‘There probably aren’t any Vogons out there,’ she says, ‘though I’m a bit worried about some of the humans.’

  ‘Tell the rest of the story,’ says Xander.

  ‘Let’s get some sleep. I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘I bet there are Vogons out there somewhere.’

  ‘Your grandfather loved the stars,’ says Grandma. ‘He always said that if you lie on your back for long enough, gazing up at the heavens, eventually someone will step on your face.’ Grandma bursts out laughing. ‘He was a silly gibbon. God, I miss him.’