I look upriver, following the edge of the bay as far up as the township of St Helens. Past the camping reserve, it is all private land, with houses and boatsheds built to the shore. Here and there, roughly sawn timber jetties, mottled with pale-green lichen, jut out into the water. The contour of the land has been shaped and manicured. I want to tell you the truth. I want you to know how my heritage along this coast has been bulldozed, smoothed over like warm butter on a crusty scone. The land formed into a fresh, new surface for the wealthy and the privileged to shape as they saw fit. You deserve to know the truth, but you are like a child in some ways. You look at me as a child does a parent, silently begging me to preserve your belief in the good of the world.

And your contentment is more important to me right now than the truth.

‘Let’s see if we can find something tomorrow. There should be some middens up the coast.’

~

Well after dark come the torches. You spot them first, rounding the bend before our beach. As they reach the front of our camp you call out. One of the search party approaches our fire. It’s a police officer in an orange jumpsuit. He is handsome and young, but tired looking. His eyebrows are caked with day-old sunscreen.

‘We’re looking for the missing fishermen,’ he says to you, ignoring me. ‘We think they may have washed up along this part of the coast, possibly alive. We could do with some help in the search.’

Even in the dying firelight, you brighten up — invigorated somehow, by the thought of being useful.

‘Can I?’ you ask.

‘I’ll watch camp,’ I reply.

You take the torch without another word and follow the policeman to catch up with the group, now some way up the beach. I listen until the calls of the search party meld into the roar of the waves on the ocean side of the point.

~

It is late when you return. You enter the tent quietly and undress in the dark. I have been waiting for you. My body, now accustomed to the makeshift bed, is hot and relaxed. You throw the covers over you and curl into a naked ball without a word. The wind picks up, shifting the trees. There is a light zipping sound as she-oak needles snap off their branchlets and slide down the tent. You recoil when I touch you, your skin like ice.

‘I’m so cold,’ you say. ‘I’m sorry. I just need to sleep.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘One of them … washed up in the rocks … what was left, anyway.’ You shiver and I know it’s not just the cold.

I should let you sleep but I need you right now. My mind keeps returning to your words in the car.