The island wasn’t that big. Only a couple of kilometres in diameter and a few bumps in the middle that passed for hills. What was striking though, was the big granite boulders, hundreds, if not thousands of them. It was as if a giant hand had just dropped them from the heavens a millennium ago, left them to bounce around a bit before coming to rest. The big granite boulders littered the island. Thus, the name, Granite Island came to pass.

The island was only half a kilometre from the mainland, linked by a causeway built some time last century, I guess.

Small fishing boats were anchored close to shore, hundreds of seagulls circled in the sky, ready to dive for any scraps thrown over the side. Round and round they flew, hour after hour.

A horse-drawn tram carried tourists from Victor Harbor to the island and back a dozen times a day. It started at the kiosk and ended at the island kiosk. Made sense as people are always eating and drinking.

We’d always spent our summer holidays at Victor Harbor, if not Victor then Port Elliot a few kilometres further along the south coast. It was the place to be in the middle of summer. Great beaches for swimming and surfing. Something for everyone.

This summer was better than normal. Dad managed to rent a house high on a hill and from my second storey balcony outpost I had a great view of the town and Granite Island. I could also see the Bluff at Encounter Bay, a huge hilly outcrop at the end of the bay. It used to be significant during the whaling days last century when whales were hunted and killed off the South Australian coast. Hate whaling. Bloody cruel!

Only in the past couple of years have whales started to return in significant numbers.

We were just off the Adelaide Road as the road winds gently into the town, just before Inman River. River, hardly! A little deeper than a creek and not a raging river by any means. The house was a bungalow of sorts with a view that stretched to the horizon and back. The white paint on the outside was badly flaking and inside was hardly Buckingham Palace but hey, it was a holiday home! The upstairs opened up to a balcony where we could sit out on deck chairs and soak up the afternoon sun. This was the life.

It was early January. We’d just unpacked and I was excited as any 14-year-old could be. School was a shit, but I had three weeks not to think of the year ahead. High school. I hated it! I’d done alright the year before, nothing brilliant, but I was only thirteen then. I had plenty of time to get it right.

Dad’s a lawyer for a big firm in Adelaide and mum’s a housewife who has a part-time job around tax time doing people’s income tax or something. Never really understood it. That’s how come we have such a great holiday every year. I have a younger sister, Lucy, but the less talked about her the better. Suppose I shouldn’t be too tough. She’s only eight. But what a pain! Can’t go anywhere without her wanting to tag along. I got more important things to do than to watch after her. Much more important things. Pest.

“Barry.”

My concentration was broken by mum yelling at the top of her voice. All I wanted to do was sit in the deck chair for a while. Ignore the world. I’d unpacked my suitcase and I wanted some peace and quiet. What was her problem?

I struggled from the chair and moved back inside, descended the staircase and walked into the kitchen. Mum was peeling potatoes at the sink, the veins on her right hand showing through as she scraped the peeler across the potato.

“Your father’s going into Victor to do some shopping. He would love a hand,” mum said, her back to me.

If that was a hint I wasn’t going to take the bait. “He can do it himself,” I said matter-of-factly but no rudeness intended.

“Come on Barry. It won’t take long. You’ll be back before three. Plenty of time for a swim.”

I wasn’t in the mood for a fight. It was too early on in the holiday. Christ! If the rest of the vacation was going to be like this, I’d rather start school now.

“Okay,” My reply was less than enthusiastic but mum didn’t seem to care. She continued to peel those bloody potatoes. I dragged my feet from the kitchen without further comment.

Dad was in the car and it was running. There’s bloody optimism for you. I could have said no.

I climbed into the car, shut the door and put on my seatbelt as dad backed the car out of the short driveway. The four-minute drive down the hill and into Victor passed without much comment. I was in a bad mood and dad just wasn’t very talkative. Between us there were several groans and a few ugghs.

Dad pulled up at the giant Woolworths store near the town centre. It was a hive of activity, bustling with cars and people pushing shopping trolleys from one end of the carpark to the other. In the middle of winter you could fire a cannon ball across the carpark without fear of hitting a thing but at this time of year; well, that was another matter altogether.

Dad struggled with the trolley from one isle to the next. It had a faulty wheel that was at right angles to the rest of the trolley. Good one dad.

He loved shopping. He was a little on the mad side. I just followed him around trying to look vaguely interested and dropping comments that it was a great afternoon for a swim. I longed for the beach. Inside a shopping centre was not my idea of fun. Far from it.

After an eternity we found a check out that wasn’t quite as busy as some of the others. In line we waited. There were three people in front of us. I picked up a copy of TV Week and flicked the pages looking at the women with the bikinis on and little else. Finally, we were served.

I must have been nuts. The girl who was serving us was fantastic. I hadn’t even noticed her until now.

She was about my age with long black hair and breasts. She actually had breasts. I was in love. Between scanning the butter and a carton of milk she looked up and smiled at me. It was sudden, real sudden. I smiled back and she gave a small giggle. I threw the magazine back on the rack and squeezed past dad so I had a better view. I manoeuvred my thin frame right next to where she was putting our shopping into plastic bags. I suddenly wished I was the one doing the shopping and dad was back at the house, I should have volunteered to go alone. Only problem. I was too young to drive.

The tag on her top revealed her name. It was Margaret. Nice name I thought. Margaret was no novice when it came to her job. She swiped through our trolley laden full of shopping goodies in no time at all. The coffee, flour, bread and sugar … whizzed past my eyes in an instant.

Dad or no dad I wasn’t going to go for it. As soon as she found my eyes again I jumped. “Just down on holidays?” I asked.

The spaghetti wouldn’t scan properly. Two, three, four times Margaret tried to scan the coding on the back of the plastic but to no avail. She began to manually type in the code. It seemed a lifetime before she answered me.

“Yes, and you?” said Margaret with a voice that sounded sweet and innocent.

“Just today we got in,” I said enthusiastically, “here for three weeks.”

 “It’s a beaut spot in summer.”

Margaret captured my eyes and for the first time I noticed her rich brown eyes. They were the darkest brown I had ever seen. Chocolate rich. They were a strange contrast to her black hair. Perhaps they seemed more remarkable because her skin was so white and smooth, not a blemish in sight. A dimple right smack in the middle of her chin was barely noticeable. 

“That’ll be $110 thank you,” Margaret said.

I wanted our conversation to go on but the end was near. Dad reached into his wallet and gave Margaret one of his many credit cards. He had more cards than anyone I knew. Soon he was signing on the dotted line and had his two hands firmly on the trolley. It was time to go.

“Have a nice day,” Margaret said and smiling again.

“You too.” I had no option but to go. I wanted to say more but I also knew I’d be back. I had a renewed interest in shopping.

The next day I dropped into Woolworths on the way to the beach but Margaret wasn’t there. It must have been her day off. I didn’t ask. I couldn’t see the point. If she wasn’t there she wasn’t there. I made my way along the main street of Victor, past the Crown Hotel and the whale museum, and found an almost deserted stretch of beach behind the playground just off the main strip. Tall pine trees lined the beach front, a formidable barrier separating the playground and the beach.

I had spent many an hour in the playground as a youngster. The playground had a real steam train. Climbing all over the train that had been out of service for more than 50 years was a lot of fun, and for a young boy there was nothing better than masquerading as Casey Jones. The assortment of monkey bars, slippery dips and swings was heaven for a child.

Fifteen minutes after leaving the house I was scrunching the sand between my toes.

I spread my towel out on the sand, clumps of dry seaweed at my feet and lay down on my back. It was still mid-morning, and the hottest part of the day was still some time off. There was an old man walking his dog on the shoreline and a woman and her young daughter digging in the sand, otherwise, it was a quiet start to a Saturday.

At least at 15 I could do things by myself. The thought of being with mum, dad and Lucy all day was a pain. I told mum, however, I’d be back for lunch. At least that way she could maintain some control over me. 

My best mate, John, was coming down for five days next week – until then, it was just me the sun. the sand and the sea. And Margaret! Yeah! What a girl. I can’t remember the last time I felt for someone like I felt for Margaret. She was wonderful.

I lay in the sand, my eyes closed lightly, thinking of her. I had to see her again. I just had to. I’ll say one thing for my parents. One thing I was not was shy. While my close friends had trouble asking girls out I didn’t. They could only say no. What’s the hassle? I wasn’t fast. I mean. I hadn’t really done anything with a girl yet. Not that I hadn’t thought about it. Christ! I thought about sex constantly. My penis rising and falling more often than the tide.

I sat up on my towel and checked my watch. It was eleven am. I ran to the edge of the water and dipped my big toe in. A little cool but not impossible. I took a deep breath and ran into the water, my legs churning through the small waves. When I was waist deep, I closed my mouth and dived under the water. Shit! The water was cold, bloody cold, and for several seconds I madly freestyled through the water to try and get warm. Eventually, my body temperature warmed and I lay my head back in the water, my feet barely touching the sand and slowly tread water. My body wholly supported by the water, I imagined what it must be like for astronauts in space, doing somersaults and backflips in a weightless space.

I loved the beach, and it loved me. I was one of the lucky ones. I tanned easily and rarely put sunscreen on. I couldn’t wait to get a tan. I believed it made me look more handsome. I wanted to believe that anyway.

Knowing that I’d told mum I would be home for lunch about midday, I started my walk back to the house. The shopping centre was slightly out of the way so I dismissed any idea of dropping by just in case Margaret was there. Just short of Inman River and the bridge, I stopped. Two people standing on the bank were fishing. For some reason I needed to stop and watch them. From the distance I couldn’t make out their faces, but I was somehow drawn to them.

I left the road and climbed down the gently sloping embankment leading down to the river. The well-trodden path had been used by many generations of holidaymakers. As I approached, their backs to me, a small branch snapped underfoot, and they turned. Recognition spread across my face. Mine was sheer delight. More fascination on the girl’s face.

It was Margaret.

“Hi,” I said as I confidently walked up to her.

“Hi,” said Margaret, as she stepped back from the bank, fishing rod in hand. “You were at the shopping centre yesterday!”

“Yes.” I was slightly miffed she hadn’t realised instantaneously who I was but then we hadn’t exactly got around to introductions. Thanks dad.

“I’m Margaret Ferguson.”

“Barry Walker.”

I was interested to find out who the boy with Margaret was. He was a good deal younger than Margaret, perhaps eight or nine. My curiosity was soon satisfied, Margaret introducing her younger brother, Trevor.

We both nodded. Trevor was more interested in the fishing and his attention soon returned to the small ripples on the river. He had the rod in a vice-like grip, determination written all over his face.

“Caught anything?” I asked.

“Not a thing. Not even a bite. Hopeless,” Margaret answered.

Margaret proceeded to reel in her line, the bait still dangling from the end of a large hook. I couldn’t quite tell what the bait was. It resembled a drowned snail. She placed the rod on the bank and sat, lightly brushing her hands on her jeans.

Standing, I said, “Are you in Victor for long?”

“Till the end of January.”

Trying not to sound too eager I said, “That’s good.” I was here for three weeks and Margaret would be in town for almost four. It was better than I could have imagined.

“We’ve got a holiday house just up the road,” I said, “I have a great view of the island.”

“Really,” said Margaret, “perhaps I could come up and have a look sometime.”

“Yeah. Great idea.” That she was so forward in her response took me a little by surprise but I was thrilled that our chance meeting might lead to something else.

“We’re staying in the caravan park on the other side of town. Trevor, mum and me that is.”

The idea of staying in a caravan park to me was irksome. That was slumming it. Many people didn’t agree. Big shit!

“I’m taking Trevor to Granite Island tomorrow. Do you wanna come?” Margaret asked.

“Sure.”

“We can meet at the kiosk at say … ten.”

“Great.”

Margaret was leading and I was loving it. I hadn’t met too many girls who took control like that; Margaret being the exception rather the rule. We were going to see one another, a date of sorts. Shame about Trevor, though. I couldn’t believe it. This was proving to be the best holiday yet, and I’d only been in Victor two days.

I was at the kiosk at 10 sharp, Margaret and Trevor were nowhere to be seen. While mum and dad were happy for me to have found a new friend, they insisted I take Lucy along. What a shit! It was my own fault I mentioned that Margaret’s younger brother was also a starter. Lucy and Trevor were about the same age, mum decided, so the arrangement was perfect. Like hell!

Just when I began to worry that Margaret wouldn’t show, I spotted them in the distance in the car park. Trevor was ambling, Margaret was striding out in front.

“Hi!”

Margaret walked straight up to me and for a minute I thought she was going to plant a dirty big kiss on my lips. No such luck. She stopped several feet short of me and grabbed Trevor’s hand who had quickly run up from behind.

“Ready for a fun day?” asked Margaret seriously.

“You bet,” I said, wondering how much fun Trevor and Lucy could possibly be. “By the way, this is Lucy, my younger sister.”

Trevor and Lucy smiled at one another and then looked away quickly, slightly embarrassed by the introduction. It was their age.

We decided to walk across the causeway rather than catch the horse tram. If we got too tired, we would catch the tram back. It was an easy 10-minute walk to Granite Island so if there was going to be any whingeing by Lucy and Trevor it would be on the way back. Five minutes after embarking on our journey Lucy and Trevor were as thick as thieves, giggling and chatting away.

Upon reaching the kiosk on the island we climbed the cement steps to the very top to catch a view of the rugged southern ocean, the giant waves crashing onto the granite boulders below. The sound of the booming waves was awesome. The wind was up and light sea spray sprinkled our faces. Margaret’s long black hair kept getting in her eyes and I felt the need to brush it away. I held back.

Like Lucy and Trevor, we were also getting on like a house on fire. Laughing and talking about school, we both hated it, so we had a lot in common. I learnt Margaret was working at Woolworth five days a week during the holidays to earn some extra cash. She never saw her father. He was bastard, she told me earnestly, without explaining why. She loved her mother, but I felt there was more to her family life, much more, but she wouldn’t say.

Coming from a fairly settled domestic life I found Margaret’s tone quite disturbing when she mentioned her father in the way she did. Not that the word bastard greatly upset me. It was the look on her face when she said it. I got the feeling she would happily plunge a knife in his back given half the chance. I shuddered.

After searching for fairy penguins and finding several on our walk around the island we soon found our way back to the kiosk. We sat outside and had a coke. My shout. Lucy and Trevor continued to talk happily while my attention was firmly on Margaret. I know she liked me; I could feel it in the way she looked at me. Likewise, I didn’t keep my feelings from Margaret making it obvious I liked her.

“Do you have to work tomorrow,” I asked Margaret, then downing the last of my coke.

“No… Monday, said Margaret.

“Do you want to meet again?”

“I’m not sure if I can Barry.”

“Oh.” Suddenly I was deflated. I just wanted to be with her twenty-four hours a day; that wasn’t too much to ask.

Interrupted Margaret, “It’s not that I don’t want to see you, it’s just mum might need, or want me.” She looked towards Victor Harbor.

“Right.”

“I’ll call you tonight.”

“Great.” I was on top of the world again. Yes, she liked me. Noticing her left hand was resting on the arm of the chair I reached across and touched it. Waiting for a response. She eyed me and smiled, then taking my hand in hers she squeezed it lightly. I bent across and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed.

“I saw that,” chirped Lucy.

I’d almost forgotten the pest was with us. “So what. You’re too young to understand.”

“Am not.” Lucy made a face and laughed.

Margaret and I could not have cared less. For the next fifteen minutes we acted as though Lucy and Trevor weren’t with us, not on the same planet. It was the best way. We would have ended up throttling them otherwise. I’m sure I didn’t carry on like those two when I was their age. God they could be little shits.

We said our goodbyes at the Victor kiosk where the day began. No dramas. It was only three-thirty but Margaret had promised her mother she would be back in good time to help her cook dinner.

I gave Margaret the phone number at the house and she promised to call me later. I desperately wanted to see her the following day and I wasn’t prepared for a negative answer. Her mother wasn’t allowed to throw a spanner in the works. No bloody way. I told Margaret as much and she smiled.

Again, I kissed her on the cheek and again she blushed. She took Trevor by the hand and they wandered off through the car park past the Victor Hotel and were soon out of sight. Lucy and I made our way back along the main strip of Victor. I wasn’t holding her hand.

The next morning I was a wreck. No phone call from Margaret. I’d stayed up until midnight in the hope the phone would ring but nothing. The family, especially Lucy were amused. I couldn’t see the joke.

Dad was a little more sympathetic and promised to drive me to the caravan park in the morning. True to his word we set off just before eleven. I thanked him for the lift but refused a ride home. I wanted to see Margaret and make sure she was okay. I’d happily walk home, I told him for the fourth time. Finally, he gave in but I had to be home by five. Sure. Why Not. Anything to get him off my back.

Margaret hadn’t told me where exactly she and her mother were staying. It was just the caravan park. As I walked in the main gate I suddenly realised what sort of job I had in front of me. Of course, I could have asked the proprietors, but the thought didn’t enter my mind. I was still bitterly disappointed Margaret hadn’t rung me the previous night, and while I knew there had to be a reasonable explanation I had to know now. Not tomorrow, not the next day, but now.

After a fruitless twenty-minute search my brain ticked into action and I checked with the front office. “Yes, the Ferguson’s are staying in lot 44,”the greying woman told me politely.

I thanked her and left. Lot 44 was down the other end of the park. It would have to be. I took the woman’s directions and soon found my way to lot 44. I stood there for a few seconds. Not moving, just standing. It must be a mistake. The woman had stuffed up. There was no caravan on lot 44.

It was a tent. A grey canvas tent. Quite a large tent, mind you, but a tent all the same. 

What to do next. I stood, not flinching a muscle. Christ! The stupid old woman had given me the wrong lot and now I would have to go back and ask again. Honestly.

I turned and started my way back to the office.

“Barry.”

The voice was loud and shrill, even panicky. I swung my body back to see Margaret emerging from the tent. The big grey canvas tent on lot 44.

“Margaret,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry … I just wanted to see you.” My mind was a muddle. I didn’t want to embarrass Margaret, yet she looked slightly embarrassed as she walked towards me.

“So sorry for not ringing last night,” she apologised, “there was a problem … I just couldn’t but I was going to ring you today. Promise.”

“That’s fine. I just got a little worried, Well, not worried but … you know.”

Silence.

“I didn’t tell you we were staying in a tent?” Margaret finally said, any embarrassment long gone.

“No. But that’s fine. Camping outdoors is a lot of fun.” Not that I would have known as I had never been camping before. 

“It’s all we can afford these days,” said Margaret keen to set the record straight. “After dad left, well, it’s been a little hard.”

“Sure.”

“Come and take a look at our home away from home,” Margaret said, making light of the situation.

Margaret enthusiastically grabbed me by the hand and led me into the tent, pushing through the long strips of plastic to keep the flies at bay. It was bigger than I imagined and was actually quite homely. Three single foldaway beds were positioned close together in one corner, a table with four small chairs were set up in the middle of the tent while a portable stove and a small refrigerator were tucked away in another corner.

“Nice, very nice,”

Margaret’s brown eyes sparkled. “You really like?”

“Absolutely. It has a great feel.” I wasn’t really sure how I felt but I wasn’t going to be rude. Besides, while I didn’t like the idea of camping out, well, that was just me.

“I’m glad.” Margaret said, as she gestured for Barry to sit. “Mum and Trevor are out. Take a seat.”

We sat at the table. Keen to learn more about why the phone call wasn’t forthcoming, Margaret was equally keen to steer the conversation in other directions. For half-an-hour we talked about Granite Island the previous day, school, and Margaret’s week ahead at Woolworths but not the problem Margaret mentioned earlier. Perhaps I was making more of it than I should have but I sensed something wasn’t quite right. My nosey nature, I don’t know. The conversation between us was more awkward; not as easy as yesterday. It was as though Margaret was being careful what she said, distrusting of me in some way.

Voices could be heard outside the tent. Margaret stood and like a robot on command, I mechanically stood with her. 

Trevor blustered into the tent, and a woman I guessed to be Margaret’s mother soon followed.

“You must be Barry,” the woman said as she set down two shopping bags at the foot of the table. She held out her hand.

“Yes, and you’re Margaret’s mum,” came my reply and shaking her hand.

“Cheryl Ferguson.”

“Pleased to meet you Mrs Ferguson …”

I was quickly cut off.

She said, “Call me Cheryl, please.”

I nodded.

“Please sit, Barry.”

“You didn’t take long,” Margaret interrupted and staring long and hard at her mum.

“No, we only bought a couple of things Margaret.”

Without a word Trevor went and lay on one of the makeshift beds and rifled a comic book from under the pillow. Cheryl began to unpack the shopping, placing the various items in a little cupboard and in the nearby fridge.

Margaret was the splitting image of her mother both having long dark hair and the same brown eyes, long eyelashes and small nose. Cheryl’s skin was also faultless, pure, as a falling snowflake. Early 40s, I guessed, and very attractive and while Margaret hadn’t revealed why her father had taken off, I couldn’t imagine he’d left for another woman. Cheryl was no slob, fat or otherwise.

After an hour I left Margaret, Trevor … and Cheryl. It took me a while to get used to the idea of calling Mrs Ferguson, Cheryl. Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl. I kept saying her name over and over. I’m sure it would be easier the next time. She was certainly pleasant enough but there was friction in the air, Margaret throwing crusty looks her mother’s way for no apparent reason. I could feel a huge fight coming on but for my presence. The fight would have to wait.

I made my way back to the centre of town, trailing the river part of the way courtesy of a walking path close to the riverbank. Tripping over a big stick I bent down and picked it up. It became my companion all the way back to the house.

I’d arranged to meet Margaret on Tuesday. It was a lifetime away but there wasn’t much I could do as she had a full day of work tomorrow so I’d just have to occupy myself some other way.

Gee, life was good.