Another Windy City

The train moves quickly once we are clear of Melbourne’s outer suburbs. The carriage we have chosen is busy but not crowded. Lone travellers, university students and mums with toddlers spread their belongings across empty seats.

Travelling backwards, I stare out the window. My eyes grow wide, mouth sags open, at the ever-expanding housing estates. Houses multiply, modern, new, barely divided by generic fences. I don’t see a piece of vacant land for at least ten minutes.

The carriage all but empties when we stop at a monstrous train station for a suburb that didn’t used to exist.

Eventually, the harsh greys of development give way to pale brown paddocks lined with eucalyptus trees. On the other side of the train tracks, a few fields away from the endless estates, the landscape finally becomes recognizable. And then, the You Yang mountains appear. We are almost there.

We step off the train and into the wind, cold and arresting despite the blueness of the sky. It whips my hair back from my face, makes my eyes water, my mascara run. We manoeuvre our suitcases along the concrete platform, eyes scanning the overflowing car park.

In my sister’s shiny car, we whiz down the highway, past familiar businesses, cafes and shops. The supermarket that became our local. The nursery – with hours spent trawling for plants. The service station where I used to fill up with petrol, no matter what the price, on the way home from work.

On the other side of the highway are the Wetlands, marshier than I remember. And beyond is the bay, glassy and still.

The next morning is cool, less than 20 degrees. It’s past 7am, though the sun isn’t fully up yet. I hear the coo of pigeons, the warble of magpies from behind the bedroom blind. The tiles are chilly on my feet and the backyard grass is wet with dew. Roses of all shades – orange, red, yellow, pink, grow tall from a garden bed, their sweet scent tinting the fresh morning air.

I drink a mug of instant coffee; eat a slice of toast with Vegemite. A well-known peanut butter label lures me to the pantry and I help myself, eating straight from the jar with a knife. The kids shoot me knowing looks as they finish their breakfast.

It doesn’t feel like shorts weather, so I dress in skinny jeans and a cardigan with my sunglasses. The air is so cool I don’t think to bring a hat or put on sunscreen. The six of us climb into the family Prado, the boys in the back-back, already immersed in their phones.

Portarlington is busy; a typical Saturday on a long weekend. Outside a fish and chip shop we push two tables together and wait for the cashier to yell out our order. I pay a dollar for a round tub of tomato sauce and use it to dunk a chunk of hot greasy fish. Pieces of batter fall onto the butcher’s paper spread out in front of me like a placemat.

The post-lunch sun is warm and high in the sky, insulating us against the ever-present sea breeze. I remove my cardigan and drape it across the inside of my elbow. The 23 degree sun bakes the backs of our necks as we stroll along the esplanade, gazing at boats with wood grain and white sails. My legs sweat and stick to my jeans, the black denim fast absorbing the sun’s heat. I shelter in a pool of shade while the kids devour melting soft-serve from a nearby ice-cream van, my face hot and my forearms already turning pink.

Back home in the backyard, we position ourselves on lounge chairs, bodies half in, half out of the sun, unable to decide whether we want to be warm or cool. Our faces and necks glow Rudolph-like, victim of the sun’s brutal kiss.

We eat dinner at twilight out on the deck, eyes stinging from the smoke of barbecued pork rashers. An uncharacteristic thunderstorm slowly closes in, and we watch the lightning as it flashes around us. Raindrops unsettle the surface of the swimming pool that it hasn’t been quite warm enough to use.

I eat a piece of Cadbury chocolate while the last of my wine goes warm. Then I lean back, crossed-legged in my chair, until it’s time to go inside.