of my head, and the pain overwhelmed me. I had to sit down, and so I sat on the swing. Back it went, then forward, a seductive swing. My toes, reverting instinctively to childhood, kicked hard into the dust and met the ground at just the right place in the swingâs backward arc to make it swing the more. The seat warmed against my skin. I pulled up my skirt and snuggled my bottom against the smooth grainy wood, wrapping my hand in the chains and hanging by the wrists in a rush of air. I closed my eyes; my head fell back. I recognised the signs. Swing rape. Desperate to get away I tore my wrists free and jumped. My knees were grazed, my legs cut by the coarse grass. My wrists were scraped and bruised from the chains. They hurt badly as circulation returned, and blood formed little bead bracelets round my ankles, where the grass had wrapped and cut. Sitting down in the dust, propped up against one iron leg of the swing, I watched as each little blood bead grew until it became too distended to contain itself. One by one the beads overflowed and trickled down, tiny red ribbons round a maypole. I picked up a sharp-edged stone, which looked usefulâa tool: a long-dead Aboriginal hunterâs weapon. I jabbed its sharp point into the swingâs leg, but nothing happened. The paint was too thick, all its molecules bound tightly together, impervious and permanent. I turned my weapon on its side, and scraped down hard on the paint. A curl of colour came onto the stone. I scraped down hard again. A thin layer of the swingâs paint skin clung onto my stone. Again and again I scraped down, my teeth grinding with effort. Layer on layer of paint came away. The paint on my stone was thicker than the paint on the swing. The steel bone lay exposedâjust a small piece. I rubbed the exposed area with my finger. It glittered faintly. The sunlight was getting stronger. Tiny flecks of green paint clung on my sweaty fingers. I picked each green morsel off with the point of my tongue, and it tasted bitter and dangerous. Lead poisoning. I recalled sad old newspaper tales of dead infants still and cold in their playpens, mouths smeared with colour from lead-painted toys, and I tried to spit it out, but couldnât. Paint is persistent: it does its job and clings to surfaces to which it is applied. Why worry? I had just decided to have a go at another leg of the swing when a dog barked close by. A man and dog walked along the shore, and I straightened up from my kneeling position beside the swing. My legs were a streaky mess of blood, sweat and dust. Man and dog turned and came towards me up the beach. I shielded the wounded swing with my body. My fingers closed around the stone.
âAre you all right, miss?â His first words of the day, they seemed, rumbling up from his sleep-stilled stomach. âHas there been an accident?â He blinked around the deserted, still misty, horizon, as if looking for a possible cause. Under my astonished gaze the mists rolled back, revealing an entire invasion fleet of warships, with guns pointed at the defenceless shore. Just as quickly they vanished. The scene played on. I suddenly felt very tired.
âNo, not really. I fell off the swing. Silly thing to do. I never could resist a swing.â I tried convincing him with a matching silly-girl smile. My face was too tired to make the effort. I glared at him instead. He glared back and walked on.
I put the stone in my pocket and walked down to the water. The sand was starting to warm; individual gritty crystals glinted slyly between my toes. I walked into the sea up to my knees, and the cold saltiness of it stung antiseptically in all the tiny weals and cuts. I scooped it up it against my face until I became calm and composed. Time to go home. Lines of glistening white shells edged the shoreline in a frothy lace cuff. I picked up a handful and put them in my pocket with the stone. The sand felt hotter under my sea-chilled feet as I