We had stopped at Dean’s Marsh on a late-summer Sunday drive to the surf beach at Lorne. I had been curious to see if a small cottage in the town - an early photograph of which I had seen in the autobiography of Marjorie Lawrence - still existed. * Dean’s Marsh? The town I had passed through so often on the way to Lorne in 1978,’79, '80, '81 and '82 with two very small children - their limbs growing longer each year so that they could eventually kick the driver’s seat and cleverly, annoyingly, wind down the windows with their summer-sandalled feet. Dean’s Marsh was the gateway to the Otways - the forest that ceased to be after a Wednesday night in 1983; the night their mother came home from a Hollies concert when the stage had been enveloped in smoke, and the only reason she knew it wasn’t a smoke machine was the acrid smell of burnt eucalypt that filled the auditorium. Earlier that night I had been watching some gritty British black and white police drama on ABC Channel ...
' ... the Present evaporates continually. It's the Past, distilled, bottled, ... which is eau de vie, the cognac of existence.' - Hal Porter, The Extra . University of Queensland Press, 1975. * It was too dark to read the menu, so I didn't. I gazed out at Market Lane, the narrow thoroughfare our window table-for-two looked out on. In the late-summer light of Sunday evening a cast of accidental actors were taking part in a pantomime; hi-vizzed Indian cyclists, playing oriental kings, bearing gift-meals for hungry baby-Jesus adults reclining in their strawless sky-byres; fast boys spidering into their carelessly parked crackle-exhaust sports cars, having not held the opposite door open for their vacantly-botoxed passengers; skeletal homeless pilgrims moving drug-shakily, like marionettes, towards some dead-end mattressed Mecca. Harlequins, columbines, pierrots, clowns. I took in all this cinéma vérité with a ten-second glance, and then a waitress materialised beside our t...