The Sentinels

The Sentinels

A line of Norfolk Island pines stood along a curve of coastal road where a public summer palace overlooked the ocean. The trees whispered in unison and bore witness to the morning, yet again. On the shoreline, gentle waves carried the body of an aged woman, then withdrew, reluctantly, leaving her naked and face down on the water’s edge. 

A moment passed. Her fingers moved, clawed into the sand as she pulled up her head to stare with dull surprise at the seaside pavilion.

Again? But how? Why? This art nouveau styled structure looked exactly as she remembered it as a child in 1957.

With a groan, Lydia rolled in the wet sand onto her back, and gaped at the hateful, empty sky.

She’d woken in this pavilion the previous morning … a modern 21st century building. She had left her quilt there, crammed into the crack in a far corner along the wall. Lydia had slept there a thousand times before in one of the pavilion’s sheltered outer alcoves.

She had waited, as usual, for the cleaners to unlock the changing rooms, to use the toilet facilities, wash her face and begin her day. Her last day.

There hadn’t been a lot for her to attend to. No property to dispose of, no goodbyes to be said. Who would even notice the homeless woman, “Loony Lydia”, no longer roamed the streets begging for loose change.

People ignored her outstretched hands or crossed the street to avoid her entreating eyes, but not all on this day. Outside the betting shop, one cashed-up punter had been generous. By late afternoon, Lydia had accumulated enough money to treat herself right royally to a bottle of “Wild Turkey” at the local liquor store.

After midnight, she settled down on the beach, wrapped in a filthy quilt and drank the bourbon. After the last swallow, she cast the bottle aside, undressed and walked into the water.

It didn’t take long. Never a good swimmer, she swam as far as she could past the pylons. Then the darkness pulled her down into its delicious oblivion.

And yet now, she looked back at an empty beach. No clothes, no quilt and no discarded bottle. Nothing left to mark her place from the night before.

#

‘When the red, red, robin comes bob, bob, bobbin’ along—along …’ A little girl, about seven years old, skipped along the sand and swung a tiny metal bucket in her hand. She sang the song she’d heard that morning on her parents’ radio.

Lydia sat upright, turning only her head to watch the girl dancing towards her. She wore long pants and a woollen jumper; her light brown hair, tied with a ribbon into a high ponytail, bobbed with the rhythm of the song. 

A handsbreadth from Lydia’s foot, the child stopped, picked out a shell from the sand and popped it into the bucket. She skipped along the waterline and made a sharp turn towards a boardwalk set into the dunes, halfway up to the car park.

The old woman stood up and shouted. ‘No! Not that way! Stop!’ but the little girl danced on, regardless.

Two middle-aged ladies chatted as they walked arm in arm across the beach. Lydia glided beside them; her long white hair hung in salty strings around her emaciated shoulders. Not so much as a sandy footprint betrayed her presence.

‘Please. Help me.’ She tugged hard at the sleeve of one lady. The two old friends didn’t pause their conversation enough to hear Lydia, but continued their daily morning walk on the water’s edge.

#

After she reached the wooden lookout, the little girl didn’t linger, but took a path along the side, towards the road that ran in front of the pavilion. 

Half a dozen people stood on the boardwalk to watch the play of early morning sunlight on the sea. The naked crone pleaded and shouted out at them to stop the child, who continued to skip up the sandy slope. 

They neither saw nor heard her; their attention fixed on the horizon. Gusts of cold air slammed against their faces. A bank of thunderous clouds appeared. They blotted out the brightness of the sky, as they boiled across the water towards the group with alarming speed. Forks of lightning hissed into the ocean, followed by cracks of thunder, and drove the spectators back to the carpark.

Lydia moved faster to shorten the gap between herself and the child, who now stood on the footpath in front of the pavilion. A shining sedan growled around the bend and paused beside her—it’s engine idling. The car was black, the broad chrome grill set off by a silver lion mascot and led the way atop the massive bonnet. A smiling man bent across the passenger seat to fling open the door and invite the little girl in out of the rain. She hung back, uncertain; her mother had warned her not to speak with strangers.

The driver spoke to her, and she leaned forward. ‘Oooh! A pony? Really? What colour is she?’ The girl placed her bucket of shells on the footpath and climbed onto the broad leather seat. As she closed the car door, the old woman arrived on the street to witness what had taken place. 

A gale ripped at the woman’s hair and the snarl of thunder amplified her shrieks. ‘Lydia! LYDIA!’ Her hands split and bled as she hammered at the vehicle’s passenger window. ‘Lydia—get out of the car!’ She climbed onto the wide black bonnet and pounded the windscreen with her bloodied fists.

The man smiled at the child sitting beside him.

‘What’s the pony’s name?’ she asked.

‘Tinkerbelle,’ he replied, brushing away a strand of hair that fell into her eyes.

‘Will Tinkerbelle let me ride her?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t tell me what colour she is.’

‘Of course you can ride her. She will love that. She’s a beautiful palomino. Tinkerbelle will adore you … and so will I.’ He gave her knee a reassuring squeeze and allowed the back of his hand to linger into a stroke along her inner thigh.

Enraged, Lydia howled and spat at the despised face behind the windscreen. In frustration, she clawed at her eyes and tore at her hair. Blood trickled down her cheeks and hung in red flags on her bony chest. 

Through the windscreen, the little girl looked straight into the woman’s bleeding face; her eyes widened, first with horror and then, strangely, recognition. 

She whimpered in fear and fumbled at the door handle. ‘I have to go now. My mummy will be looking for me.’

The storm hit the street with furious intensity sending hail stones clattering on the roof of the car. 

The man slammed his foot on the accelerator and threw the old woman off the bonnet, high into the air. A whirlwind caught her and lowered Lydia onto the footpath, gently arranging her body around the tiny tin bucket of shells. Lydia became more and more transparent with each pulsation of yellow light from the dying storm.

A boy wearing earbuds sped past on his electric scooter. He clipped the bucket and sent the shells flying across the road.

It left nothing to mark Lydia’s passing, except the sad whisper of the Norfolk Island pines.