So much for stringency. We had only one immediate objective now, and that was to get back to the coast. Ros wanted to swim with rainbow-coloured fish again. And I wanted to stretch out flat, with cotton wool in my ears, beneath a palm tree. Not wishing to appear to be in retreat, however, we took the leisurely route, going the long way down before returning the long way up, through the cheese towns of Malanda and Millaa Millaa and the decimated rainforests of the Palmerston National Park. Which gave me the opportunity to rename a few places after people I liked; most notably the clear waterfall outside Millaa Millaa which I called the Janson-Smith Falls, after Patrick Janson-Smith of London; and the marvellous view from the Palmerston Highway down over the North Johnstone River, which I called Terry Lane Lookout, after the lucid and magnanimous Melbourne radio interviewer of that name. The North Johnstone itself I changed to the Kitson River, in honour of Jill Kitson also of Melbourne, Mr Terry Lane’s producer. And to the area in general we both gave the name the Meredith Levy Ranges, as a gesture of affection to our friend Meredith Levy of Sydney, and as a reminder to ourselves that there was life after Roxanne Terrel.

We didn’t spend the night at Cairns. We drove in and then out again on an impulse. Travelling north on the road to Mossman a few days before, we had called in at an impossibly paradisal beach resort called Palm Cove. It had golden sands, slender swaying palm trees, a gentle Coral Sea surf, and any number of lethargy-inducing hotel/motels. ‘A good place to disappear to for a while when you’re feeling frazzled,’ we’d observed at the time. So we took another look to see if that was how it still struck us. We walked in the surf, watching the sun go down over the Reef. Behind us we could hear the sound of coconuts dropping onto the sand. ‘Beware of falling coconuts,’ signs said, at regular intervals between the palms. At dusk the fruit bats came. The moon rose silver through the trees, duplicating itself upon the water. The mermaids shook their hair. I didn’t know whether to swear or cry.

I postponed my decision until we’d booked into a hotel with a balcony. We sat out and watched the bats. And listened to the surf rustling like tin foil. And the intermittent thud of coconuts. Then I turned my face to the moon and, howling, swore like an Alice Springs camper.

19 The Expulsion From Paradise

Nineteen
 
The Expulsion From Paradise

We rose to a stormy day. An ill-tempered wind whipped across the beach. The Coral Sea looked like the English Channel. Behind us the clouds were low on the hills, giving the impression that the rainforests were smoking, choking on their own exhalations.