Crocodile Rock - A Short Story

Crocodile Rock

The Suzuki Jimny bumped and lurched stoically over the potholes in the rough sandy track until its driver decided it would be unfair to force it any further. She parked up carefully among the fragrant pines, cursing briefly but succinctly at sound of the front bumper scraping against a furtive rock. The rest of the journey would have to be on foot. Precarious. She eased herself gingerly from the car and within moments had her first sight of it, artfully framed by branches of olive and pine, the work of a celestial exterior designer.

The Beach.

A mischievous sprite had delved into her head. With nimble fingers teased and tugged at ancient memory revealing it with an impish flourish. Small sweeping bay of impossibly perfect golden sand bounded by dark jutting rocks at both ends. To the right Hippopotamus Rock, folds of wrinkled sediment bathing in the waves. Beyond it, head tilted away from its eternal companion as if slighted by an insouciant remark, Elephant Rock, dusty grey trunk and part of its head dipping in the sea. And dividing them like some prehistoric referee, wading in the turquoise shallows, snappy little Veloceraptor Rock. She clung mentally to that side of the bay, seconds ticking, eyes fixed and staring, stinging. Then painfully aware that she could avoid it no longer, exhaled on a heavy sigh and forced her head round to the left.

There it was.

At the far end of the bay, sliding stealthily, silently into the water just as she remembered it, Crocodile Rock.

“Holding hands and skimming stones…”.

It was an illusion of course. Only ancient geology remained untouched. As she stumbled down the last few yards to the beach - perfect beach made in beach heaven, pale sand sprinkled with glinting jewels slipping seductively through her fingers - she saw it as it was now, tamed and harnessed, providing the facsimile of safety and security required by the bulk of humankind. Lined with sun beds and garish beach umbrellas, taverna at the far end, nearby a beach bar, classic Motown now audible on the offshore breeze, the ragged washed out rainbow flag on its flat roof a fluttering reminder of times long passed.

Gossamer ghosts flitted by on the warm air brushing her skin…

I’ve got tickets for Cats!”

Low sun bathing the scene. Tony gazing from beneath the brim of the Panama. Expression of wide-eyed innocence as he scanned his little audience, pausing for a beat, then stretching out his lithe form comfortably on the soft golden sand, neatly tipping the hat over his eyes, clasping his hands carefully behind his head.

“Guys, quick smart! Get a beer over here for Magical Mister Mistopheles”.

Dave in exaggerated Antipodean reflex, head down, fingers fiddling with the recalcitrant ghetto blaster.

Tony giggling endearingly.

Susie responding right on cue. Carefully cultivated bell-like tinkle and a little toss of the blonde curls, siren ruby lips luring foolish men to the rocks. Haughty swish of a fishy tale.

Helen kneeling a little apart, neatly arranging the picnic, raising her eyes, observing, assimilating, familiar expression of wry amusement on the pleasant freckled face.

Jack brooding and dark, head buried deep in a book, mind circling Yossarian and missions. Susie’s mask slipping only briefly, fleeting frown easy to miss as she recorded Jack’s determined lack of interest.

Oh Jack!

He’d crept stealthily into her mind on that day as he so often did, and she’d imagined him in twenty years. Louche award-winning writer, highly intellectual, wilfully obscure. The double page spread in the upmarket Sunday arts supplement. Self-conscious fuzzy monochrome portrait. Seedy rundown post-industrial backdrop. The writer leaning with feigned casualness against the stained, chipped red brick, staring into the camera, unsmiling, challenging, hands stuffed in pockets, white shirt open at the neck dark, dark tie in a careless knot. The scene would flicker seductively through her mind for a moment or two before switching to the shabby Oxford don alternative, reading glasses perched halfway down his nose, earnest frown creasing his brow as he extolled the wonders of the metaphysical poets to wide-eyed nubile neophytes.

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may…”

She perched uncomfortably on the wobbly wooden seat at the bare, sand-scuffed table on one edge of the crowded beach taverna, the half-repaired slatted roof offering only intermittent shade. Homemade hanging driftwood wind-chimes rattled and murmured impatiently. In one practised movement the taverna owner tossed a nonchalant cigarette stub from lips to ground, crushing it with his heel into the soft sand floor, as he set down a basket of napkin-wrapped cutlery and dense bread. Next to the basket stood matching cruets of olive oil and malt vinegar, a tiny tub of chipped wooden toothpicks, and a battered plastic bottle of HP sauce, aging sediment of brown crust fermenting around its lid.

She’d been forced to share with a gaunt balding sad-faced Englishman of indeterminate age, who looked as if he was not enjoying his holiday much, thankful at least that he seemed disinclined to conversation beyond a barely audible “hello”. She’d no energy today for polite and pointless exchange. His nod to basic civility had been almost entirely drowned out by the raucous roars from the gaggle of lubricated Liverpudlians adjacent .

Grazing on a Greek salad of sweet juicy tomatoes, pungent crumbling feta and delectably bitter black olives, an unexpectedly delicious accompaniment to the only slightly rubbery kalimares, she let her thoughts wander, seeking solace in mindless contemplation and a solitary bottle of perfectly acceptable island plonk. What, she mused, would be the most apt collective noun for a gathering of loquacious Liverpudlians, the pointless little game a momentary diversion? A Kop? No, that would upset the Evertonians. One of the aforementioned leaned back just a little too far in his chair, until it passed its tipping point, and she sat mute, briefly forgetting to exhale as she watched its inevitable backwards slow motion progress to the floor until its befuddled occupant rested supine but unscathed on the sand. The noise level increased exponentially.

“Parashooot reshhment. Learned how t’ fall”, slurring as he attempted to right himself and the chair, only succeeding in testing the limits of his expertise and of his dignity as he thumped right back down in the sand.

A perm of Liverpudlians? A Paddy? Oh God, casual class-ridden regional stereotyping as avoidance. She settled the bill and pulled herself carefully to her feet, using her arms as leverage.

“Your cane Kyria.” The suddenly solicitous taverna owner, grabbed an arm and assisted her first few halting steps. “Efharisto”, she replied, barely able to stifle the perennial growl of deep frustration.

A notice. Sunlounger and umbrella - 8 Euros - the daily rate for paradise these days. She remembered when it cost nothing, and everything…

“Couldn’t we just have caught the fish? Sea’s teaming with the buggers.”

“Well we’d have to kill them and gut them first. Volunteers form an orderly line on the right.”

Dave’s face twisting in exaggerated disgust.

“And we’d have starved waiting”

Helen laughing. Susie joining in, in practised reflex, eyes on Jack.

Tony smirking as he prepared to cook, laying the ‘sargos’ fillets carefully on the fire, which had been built in the lea of the crocodile by Dave, and an only slightly recalcitrant Jack, who’d been commandeered as driftwood beachcomber.

“Ok. Time to watch and learn - hey , did I tell you? I’m going to open a restaurant?”

“Yeah, just on the hour every hour.” Dave raising his eyebrows heavenwards.

“Nouvelle cuisine. Can’t lose. On two counts.”

Tony pausing to taste a finger, the look on his face a weirdly winning combination of exquisite pleasure and self-congratulation.

The yuppies’ll love it, and saves money on ingredients.”

Memories so tangible that she could smell the smoky aroma of the marinated sea-bream as she lay back carefully on the sun lounger, breeze scrubbing her skin vigorously now as it strengthened as ever in the early afternoon. Thoughts tumbled through her mind, highlights picked out from the intricate, expanding tapestry of her memory.

Dave getting up, moving through the little group lying on the sand, replete, as they enjoyed their own private beach, circulating bottles of wine and beer and ouzo, dreaming dreams. Dave placing the ghetto blaster on the flat rock, pressing the button with a sigh. Everyone startled as it burst into loud and effervescent life.

Dave’s wide grin as he leapt onto the rock in delight, yelling in off-key accompaniment , dancing comically - mock Maori war dance.

“ I remember when rock was young. Me and Susie had so much fun….”

Dave perching precariously on the crocodile’s flat head. “Laaah, la la la la laa, la la la la laa, la la la la laaah,” warbling in screeching falsetto. Susie’s bright blue eyes widening in delight, jumping up nimbly to join in, Dave grabbing her hands. Then. everyone scrabbling up, dancing on top of the long flat rock.

Even Jack.

Clinging to each other for balance, doubling up with laughter.

“… hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Rock!”

Colour photographs in her mind of the faces of her old friends, frozen forever in time. Temporary surge of remembered joy. A captured moment of youth and friendship and lightness and freedom, and boundless hope and sheer love of life.

Remembered joy! Impossible to find language to describe the searing exquisite pain of it. That bittersweet composite of happiness and longing, tinged with bliss and tainted with regret. Words too puny and inadequate shuttered the window to full clarity and explanation. The frozen tableau in her mind craved something more potent than words.

Music.

The boppy little pop song of actual reality was breezy, chirpy, but only appropriate for the now. Too immediate, transitory, disposable as the moment had seemed to her when she’d lived it. The sweet aching remembrance down the years was deserving of elevation. Fade the jolly tinny sound to silence. Replace with something much grander.

Epic.

Saint-Saens’ Symphony Number Three, the instant of glorious surprise as the organ blares in triumphant confident C major, then builds inexorably to the longing of the E major chord. That’s what the scene needs, she thought. She tried it out for size, finger pressing a mental mute button on the pop song, the restless breeze, the laughter, as she replayed the scene with its glorious silent movie score over and over.

Gradually aware of her discomfort on the sun lounger she eased her weight onto one side till she faced the hippopotamus…

Much later that evening, after the dancing had stopped and the giant harvest moon had replaced the sun, it’s white light illuminating the rolling swell, they’d all swum, spreading out, in ones and twos, round Hippopotamus Rock, more carefully around jagged little Veloceraptor rock, navigated old Elephant Rock, “Arbacia lixula”, the black spiny sea urchins lurking in the dark just beneath the water line.

“If you get stung I have to piss on you.”

“Get lost!” Tony’s amiable retort as he shoved Dave’s head beneath the waves with surprising force.

“Antidote, you ninny.” Dave’s spluttery grinning reply echoing across the bay in the moonlight as he resurfaced.

Choice of tiny hidden coves just big enough for two – or three. Crawling alone onto the little sandy cove, like early life emerging from the sea, soles of her feet wincing on the strip of stones on the shoreline, a jagged, determined deterrent to intruders.

That was when she saw them, entwined on a large flat smooth stone, lips locked in a long loving embrace, certain they were unwatched.

Oh Jack!

Back in the water again. Chilled now, by the sudden drop in temperature, by the icy knives piercing her heart.

“ Race to Crocodile rock!” Someone yelling. “ Last one pays a forfeit.”

Laughter and splashing, arms flailing in the growing swell.

Close to the crocodile, surf angry now, surging noisily over its smooth flat head and sides, almost overwhelming it. Sounds echoing and attenuated in the dark. Some people already on the rock. Jack, arms raised in victory.

Glancing back over her right shoulder. She wasn’t last, thank goodness. One more close behind. The familiar face momentarily drenched in moonlight, shining, in remembrance of secret triumph no doubt. Arms splashing, waving wildly, calling something indistinguishable.

Waving

The surge of loathing coursing through her body at the treacherous attempt at friendliness. Ignoring. Racing the last few strokes to the rock. Futile childish need to savour a tiny victory.

People on the rocks shouting something. Gesticulating. Chaotic. Pointing at her and further out to sea. Looking back, her adversary no longer visible. Grim satisfaction that she would get there first. Stretching her fingers to touch the edge of the crocodile as someone dived in over her.

Jack!

“Last one pays a forfeit…”

Drowning not waving!

“We always thought the Crocodile Rock would last…”

She eased herself slowly into a sitting position, lifted the copious bag that contained the borrowed snorkel and face mask, adjusting the strap to a watertight fit. There was time.

The sea’s surface wore its early evening Las Vegas diamante shimmer, blinding her as she entered making small final adjustments to snorkel and mask. She quickly plunged beneath the waves impatient to pass that initial sharp icy shock. Swam slowly, face downwards, strong arms pulling at the salt water, legs floating free, glad to leave dragging gravity behind.

The fish watched her, gaping in momentary surprise to see her, but unperturbed. She was surrounded by a scaly translucence of tiny picarel shape shifters, in football formation one minute, now a darting arrow, matching shape with speed. Dressed in uniform. Iridescent silvery backs, thin horizontal orange score across the middle and drab schoolboy-grey underbellies. The larger fish deeper down studiously ignored her, concentrated on feeding. None stood in judgement or questioned her decision to join them in their watery domain.

She swam doggedly towards the half-submerged crocodile, right beneath its head. Saw the black spiny sea urchins, silent sentinels clinging malevolently to the smooth underside of the ancient stone reptile. Seeking concealment amongst the abundant underwater plant life. Spongy moss clinging, sickly green Afro-frizz waving to the choreographed rhythm of ancient tides like some sixties protest chorus. Accompanied by raised white double trumpets. Other longer seaweed fronds waved spidery gospel arms in time.

“Let the sunshine in!”

And the sun heard the call, sprinkling diamonds on the surface and shining wavering spotlights into the dark places.

She took a breath and held on to it, dived deeper, body in tune with the gentle rhythm of the swell now. At one with her chosen element. A shape was peaking out at her just beyond the fronds of seaweed and patient sea urchins.

Approaching.

She swam towards it, beyond the black overhanging rock to the edge of open water. She knew what it would be before it reached her.

It surged up to meet her, right in her face, empty eyes staring, shocking her …

Murderer! It screamed in silence…

Watching paralysed, transfixed as the body floated down, down, arms stretched in supplication, eyes glazed, unseeing, life ebbing.

Washing closer to the crocodile, as it waited patient, grinning.

The look on Jack’s face as he’d dived over her.

Etched fear, determination, deep love.

Jolted at last to action, she struggled for the surface, took a huge breath and plunged deeper than she’d ever dared before, seeking out the lifeless form, grabbing it as best she could, kicking her strong legs, hauling with all her remaining strength.

Someone at her side. Relieving her of the heavy burden. Jack! Pulling his beloved into his arms, rolling her with superhuman strength on to her back, hand under her chin, paddling for the shore.

Her task done, she understood that she was dismissed, discarded, surplus to requirement.

Now the searing flash of indescribable pain. Her leg crashing against the jagged ancient reptile, lungs filling with hot salty agony…

Life on earth was fading. It seemed remote and unnecessary. Alien.

“ Come with me,” Death echoed from the deep, and she followed willingly, ready to cross that tiny, fragile line, to embrace an eternity of succour and sweet peace among the tranquil, underwater creatures.

A narrow shaft of wavering, dazzling white penetrated her watery refuge, quite close by.

Beckoning her.

And she moved towards the light, effort no longer a requirement. The blinding beam engulfed her, welcoming her, as she broke the surface. I have nothing to pay you with, she said without words, as Charon grasped her and hauled her on board with strong swarthy tattooed arms, and watched her with concerned, comforting eyes…

The taverna owner gathered up the spent glasses, giving each table a desultory wipe with a grubby cloth. The beach was almost empty now, sun loungers and umbrellas neatly stacked, light fading, as the sun prepared to leave the stage and plunge behind the mountains on the mainland opposite with a final shimmering bow. His eyes only briefly noted the mature couple standing on the rock clutching each other for support…

Pretty much to everyone’s surprise, except Tony’s of course, the restaurant had been a success. Until he’d gone off to conquer Australia and lost touch. Dave had been cajoled into becoming a partner in the venture, along with his future, if temporary, wife who pitched in with interior design advice. Perfectly acceptable alternate career choice for an aspiring dancer with a shattered leg.

And what of Jack?

Oh yes, his writing career blossomed beyond his wildest dreams. His words came to be heard in every home in the land, day and night – in the breaks between everyone’s favourite TV shows.

Last year he’d been appointed CEO of the Ad Agency.

She often wondered if he harboured any regrets over youthful ambitions unfulfilled, not something such a deep and private man would easily divulge. Anyway, she chose to presume, he found ample compensation in the love and support of his charming wife, her stalwart friend, who’d made the very best of the new life he’d breathed into her on that night. Internationally renowned researcher into one of the most insidious killers of all.

Ovarian cancer.

Nasty little sea urchin of an irony that the disease should choose her of all people.

He’d been standing there waiting on the shore as she’d emerged, removing facemask and snorkel. She tossed them to the sand, grabbing her towel from the sun lounger as she limped up to meet him.

Grey.

Grey hair, grey face

Yet still the same dark, deep-set brooding gaze.

He clutched a small object in the crook of his right arm.

They embraced firmly, silently, then walked slowly arm in arm, without speaking, toward the Crocodile.

The man and the woman stood on the flat head, hair lifting in the dying breeze as echoing night prepared to relieve restless day. The last rays of the sun painted them in loving shades of deep red and orange as it sank finally beneath the soaring, black mountains opposite. The man carefully, reverentially, removed the top of the object he was carrying, grasped the pewter jar tightly, kissed it once, and with a swift upward movement of his right arm, returned his beloved to the sea.

Susie squeezed Jack’s hand as they gazed at the gently rippling waves. A little way out a small fishing boat bobbed, its single white light searching the darkening water. And she imagined Helen turn and smile, give one last wave before plunging beneath the welcoming swell.

The End

Louise Angus 2009