ALEX1
“Okay, kids.” I brought the car to a stop and peered out the windshield. “I think this is it. We’re here.”
Neither child replied. Glancing at each of their sleeping faces in turn—Ollie beside me in the front, Kara in the back—I felt a pang of anticlimax. The first time I’d seen Pine Ridge it had taken my breath away, and I’d been looking forward to seeing their expressions as we drove in. Well, Ollie’s expression anyway. At eight months old, Kara couldn’t yet tell animal from vegetable so I wasn’t likely to get a reaction from her, but I’d been certain my fourteen-year-old son would be impressed. Instead, he was snoring. Headphones on, head lolling awkwardly to one side, drool glistening in the corner of his mouth.
“Kids,” I said again, a little louder. As if in response, Ollie’s phone lit up in his lap, buzzing softly with a notification. I glared at it, tempted to pick it up and hurl it straight into the nearest garbage can.
Instead, I checked the house number and street name again. Definitely the right address, and the description matched. A split-level at the far end of the village, the last in a row of four. White walls, blue roof, two balconies and a timber staircase at the side. No one was waiting to greet us, though—which seemed strange until I remembered that I hadn’t given an arrival time when I’d emailed a few days earlier. I’d had no idea when or even if we’d be able to get away, so I’d told them I’d have to play it by ear. No problem! had been the cheerful reply. Just pop into the office when you get here, and we’ll show you around. But the office had been empty when I’d passed, so I’d carried on driving along the narrow main road to our allocated unit, following the directions I’d been given. There was no rush; eventually either someone would find us or we would find them.
I took a breath. The car was cramped and had that family-road-trip smell: feet and Happy Meals. Our belongings were packed around us so tightly I’d half-expected the windows to burst. Storage cartons, loose shoes and books, jumbo flexi tubs bought in a hurry from Kmart and stuffed with our dirty laundry: I’d crammed them Tetris-style into every inch of available space. An expert job, if I did say so myself. But if there was anything I did well, it was packing up and moving on.
I rolled my window down and a fresh breeze pushed its way into the car, mussing my hair like a drunk uncle and bringing with it the sweet, earthy scent of resin. A tingle of excitement skipped across my skin: I live here now.
I looked over at Ollie again, ducking my head a little to see under the brim of his cap. It was one of those gorgeous Australian November days—not too hot or sticky, just perfectly pleasant—but my son was bundled up in his usual sloppy green hoodie. It needed a wash; the orange circle on the front bore a tomato sauce stain the size of a fifty-cent piece.
“What’s wrong with you?” he said, suddenly opening one eye. “Why do you keep staring at me?”
“Oh. Sorry. You’re awake.”
“What?” My son held one of his headphones away from his ear and tinny music escaped from the padded speakers: a thrum of bass overlaid by a single screeching note like an air-raid siren.
“I said, you’re awake.”
“Um, obviously.” He pushed his cap back and tugged his headphones down around his neck. “Why are we stopped?”
“Because we’re here. We’ve arrived.”
Ollie shrugged and picked up his phone. Checking the notifications, he moved his thumbs rapidly over the screen. Tap-scroll-tap-tap-scroll.
“Don’t you want to get out and take a look around?”
With his eyes still glued to the screen, Ollie opened the car door and got out. Quickly checking on Kara—still asleep—I did the same. I could smell orange jasmine, lilly pilly, lemon myrtle and just a touch of sea salt. No car fumes, no asphalt, no overflowing dumpsters. I inhaled and my lungs felt fresh and clean.
Ollie turned in a slow circle, surveying his new surroundings. Although it was just two hours from the guts of Sydney and only thirty miles northeast of the Central Coast’s suburban sprawl, Pine Ridge ecovillage could not have felt more remote. Nestled high up in the hills and built on former farmland, it seemed completely cut off from the chaos of the city. No skull-shatteringly loud roadworks, reckless teenage drivers screeching their tires or the constant ECG blip-blip-blip of pedestrian crossings. From the middle of the two-hundred-acre site, all you could hear were birds, bees and the hush of the wind.
The sense of peace was exaggerated by the shape of the valley—shallow and round, like a dish—and the flat stretch of water that lay at the bottom like an enormous blue puddle. The surrounding trees acted as natural soundproofing, muffling what little noise there was until the quiet felt almost artificial. The beauty of the village, too, seemed unreal. The Lego-spill of buildings from the top of the ridge to the valley floor reminded me of those European towns featured on jigsaw puzzles and postcards—Positano, Cinque Terre, Santorini—and their proximity to the reservoir made me think of the tranquil lakeside settlements I’d visited while backpacking in my late teens: Bled, Hallstatt, Seyðisfjörður, San Marcos La Laguna.
Ollie, however, was unmoved.
I jangled my keys while I waited for his verdict. My adrenaline levels were still high from the quick exit, the fast drive. Both hands on the wheel, one eye on the rearview mirror. Dry mouth, cracked lips, nail beds bloody and stinging after weeks of nervous chewing.
I watched my son’s face, desperately wanting—needing—him to like it as much as I did. Driving down from the ridge just moments ago, I’d been so confident. How could you not love the seclusion, the sense of absolute safety? The road that wound away from the freeway and down into a lush tangle of eucalypts, the turquoise sparkle of the reservoir, and the way the land held the houses like a pair of cupped hands. It was perfect. But now, seeing the isolation through my son’s eyes, the colors of Pine Ridge took on a darker hue.
In some areas, the village was still under construction. The roads were powdery, marked with dirty tire tracks and clumps of earth. Mud-spattered concrete mixers sat next to freshly poured slabs and elaborate timber frames, and dotted around the periphery was evidence of the old farm the village had been built over: abandoned trailers, coils of rusty wire, stacks of discarded piping. Rickety old sheds slouched in corners like sulky children.
But, judging by the pace at which the development had grown since I’d first seen it, that would all get cleared up soon enough. Thrown away or burned. Paved over, smoothed back, polished up and transformed into something better. Out with the old, in with the new. I liked that sentiment. Clearly, there was no room for the past in a place like Pine Ridge. Or that was my hope anyway.
“I cannot believe,” Ollie said eventually, in the disdainful tone of voice he reserved especially for me, “that you’re making me move to a hippie commune.”
Copyright © 2022 by Anna Downes