Coral calmed inside her bedroom. Everyone washed away the mulberry tree fight as she organised warm face towels.
"Play Monopoly on the rug whilst I shower and change," she said.
Ruby set the board and shared the play money. Josh and I engaged in disengaged dice tossing.
Looking at his watch, my mate said, "She is taking her time! Probably repainting her nails."
He spun the cubes across the rug, moved his racing car token, landed on the community chest and paid the banker, Ruby, a fine.
"Well, I bet you would like those golden fingers scratched across your chest," the brunette quipped.
Josh stretched and glared at Ruby. He jerked forward to yank her ponytail.
She whipped away with ease and fluttered her lashes.
I took my turn hastily, rolled the dice, and my wheelbarrow token landed straight in jail.
The brunette scattered the entire Monopoly set when Coral reappeared.
Fresh in a strawberry skirt and white T-shirt, we followed her lead and headed to the kitchen, where she organised a fluffy vanilla cake and lemon squash. After our refreshments, Coral and Ruby paired in the board game. Josh and I wilted bankrupt fast. The petite pony-tailed minx positioned little red hotels everywhere.
On this Saturday in September '74, only Coral and I hiked towards the mulberry tree. Later, we may have continued farther to dip our feet in the spring.
Distraction crossed our path as Coral led, clambering over the rocky crest. Only my bestie could pull off a heavy and light combination as a floral dress flounced above bulky boots.
We paused at the boulder-strewn knoll before I intended to lead on the downside descent. Instead, from our stony vantage, I pointed out to Coral, down the slope, two older individuals, a male and a female. Both wore jeans. The pair lay on the ground, their bodies pressed and wrapped.
In common, they shared long hair, the fashion for the sexes. The dude displayed wispy sideburns. My annoyance rose because an unknown couple occupied our turf: this local bush, the mulberry, and the spring we treated as a private domain.
We propped at a reasonable distance. Wary of the novel couple. As the scene unfolded, we smirked. Coral and I twigged on what transpired. The girl lay underneath, spreading the spongy grass, and the guy pressed on top of her. He supported his weight in the way adults manage in the missionary position.
Our snickers joined the movements of the couple. Two faces locked in a kiss, their heads still—whilst the lower half of each body engaged in instinctual pushing. Soon, we observed a regular patterned humping motion as their groins and thighs agreed to a synchronised rhythm. The joint nudging gained in intensity and quickened in movement.
The afternoon's quiet carried their mutual satisfaction up the hillside: her soft moans, his louder grunts. There was no human reason for disturbing their absorbed encounter or where it might lead.
As Coral and I squatted under a gum tree, I impulsively bothered them. I collected a handful of scattered gumnuts and lobbed the pods one by one, trying to hit the dry-humping couple.
Coral touched my arm and mouthed, "Luke, stop!"
Later, I understood she respected their privacy.
She gestured we should leave.
The pair proved challenging to hit. I persisted until I threw a handful of nuts to annoy them for blocking our intended path.
A few pods hit the young man's mop of hair. He reacted by jumping up and scanning the hillside. The dude left his girl and rushed towards us.
The young man waved his arms and yelled, "Piss off."
He paused several metres away, crossed his arms and stamped his foot like a snorting bull.
It appeared he would keep coming if we loitered.
Coral and I glanced at each other. Then, after a shared nod, we scurried to the top of the slope, no glances over our shoulders.
At the crest of the hill, I stewed, "Darn, that was close."
Coral said, "Yeah, it was wrong but exciting."
"What's exciting about getting your head bitten off?"
Any gumnuts at my feet I kicked.
"Luke, calm down," said my bestie, "We were lucky we didn't see their jeans coming off!"
Then, a wide-eyed Coral added, "We shouldn't have watched."
Wayward, I submitted, "If his jeans flopped at his ankles, he wouldn't have been able to confront us?"
Coral joined my laughter.
The tension passed, discussing what to do next.
"Well, Luke, no spring today or the mulberry. Home, I suppose?"
Desiring her company, I suggested, "Up the higher hill?"
"Why?"
"My dad said, up there is a rumoured bushranger's stone lair."
"Mmm, sounds dodgy."
I shuffled on the spot and jammed my hands in my pockets.
"Oh, let's go anyway," Coral chirped, clapping her hands.
"Though you're right," I said, "We are unlikely to find anything special."
"Wrong," she said with a wink, "we are the special going there."
The traipse uphill involved avoiding blackberry brambles and skirting dense scrub before locating a rough stone circle.
"A recently made campfire booze party," I said.
"Yeah, and a mess," added Coral.
The evidence, beer bottles, littered the clearing. Our boots crunched smashed brown glass. The shards glinted, jagged and uninviting. As we arrived, we were ready to go after completing a cursory, disinterested, anti-clockwise circle.
Coral stopped in her tracks; her outstretched arm halted me. She pointed to an animal trap. The rusting claws held matted fur and a long ear — the remains of a rabbit.
Flies swarmed.
My concern darted to Coral as I remembered her sensitive reaction to a dead-fledging a few years ago.
Her response evolved differently, maybe because the rabbit was long dead. In the bush, we encountered decomposed creatures; nothing this cruel. Younger, we goggled at an empty-eyed possum and a shrivelled blue-tongue lizard. The fledging died at her home, an unexpected location.
"Go."
I repeated, "Go," to a stalled Coral, followed by uncomfortable repetitive swallowing.
After blinking rapidly, she marched off.
As we hiked home, I distracted her by concocting silly scenarios involving the young couple whose path we crossed. A shotgun wedding storyline made her giggle.
Now, I remember the keenness of dry humping. My mind's eye hones in on mushed berries. Then, the focus of memory alters to a blood-like mangosteen purple stain, smearing Coral's hand. The colour recalls the fruit peeled and sensually shared.