The eye of Miss Willow’s caravan

We used to go camping. Dad’d take us. We’d load up the van with: Lilos, tents, cricket bats and balls, the Eski, the footy, sleeping bags, swimmers, jumper and trackies; and scoot up the coast to Norah’s Flat. We loved it, Matt and I. Dad’d call out over the crackle of the radio and howl of the open window, “Good to get away from the Old Girl, isn’t it boys?” We were a team, a club, Dad, matt and I; it was us versus her, on those sporadic trips.
Norah’s Flat was beautiful; running grass slopes wash into the rolling of the rapids. They were small rapids, but to us they were the frontier of human expedition. And they’d peter out into to a natural pool with a ledge over looking it. Before the VeeDub’d clunk to a stop, Matt and I were out and running, jostling for the ledge, and into the water. We’d come up spluttering and laughing and gulping back that sweet water.
At night, exhausted, we’d lye on our backs and look up at the winking stars; watch as they’d flow and meander and swirl, around the wise moon. Shooting stars’d skip across the silky, dark sky. And we’d just lie there, watching the universe twist and spin and fold, like an opal; until Matt and I’d fall asleep, and Dad’d carry us into our tent and set us down on our damp Lilos.
In the morning we’d wake up in that humid, damp tent, to the hum of the river and whistle of the birds. We’d kick the footy, and explore through the forest surrounding our clearing, and jump from the ledge into the clear water. Sometimes, when Dad wasn’t around, we’d sneak off to the other side of the camping ground, and peer in through the eye of Miss Willow’s caravan. Most of the time we wouldn’t see her, and we’d just peer around at her dishevelled caravan. But sometimes we’d see her cooking or painting or reading, in the nude. She’d be sitting there, and then she’d uncross her legs and it’d look like Dad’s armpits, the way the hair sprawled out everywhere. Matt’d get real excited. He’d talk for the rest of the day about her boobs, and what he’d do to them if he were a little older.
Dad caught us once, and gave us a right wholoping. But we went back. Matt said he had a stiffy and wanted see if Miss Willow was nude again. I pretended I knew what a stiffy was and said I had one too. Miss Blank was nude again, but she wasn’t alone. There was a lot more hair and muscles than last time. I couldn’t see who the man was from my vantage point, only his hairy date bouncing up and down. I could see her though, mouth agape and breast lolling. But then Matt stiffened. He grabbed my arm, and pulled me away. “What’s wrong” I asked, “did you forget your stiffy?” “No. Sort of. We better get back before Dad finds us.” But Dad wasn’t around. He must of gone for one of his jogs.
Matt was quieter than usual, and we sat on the ledge and watched the light scatter and flee from the surface of the water, like it was a chandelier. So I jumped in and splashed water up at him. When Dad came back his skin was gluey. He must’ve jogged a long way. That night Matt was quiet, so I asked Dad how his jog was. He said that it was good, the best he’s had in a while. He jogged for hours, he said. That’s my Dad. A real athlete.
The next day we left Norah’s Flat, and Dad gave a quick honk as we passes Miss Blank’s caravan.