Free Footprints by Robert Rayner Page B

thinks Harper, if pushed into a confrontation, can take care of himself, but he worries about Isora, who will also follow suit, and whom he doesn’t want the police, or anyone, grabbing hold of.
    At eight o’clock, Drumgold meets Isora on Main Street Parallel, a narrow dirt road that runs between Main Street and the river. They both hold placards. Isora’s reads:
Nobody Owns a Beach!
They walk to the end of the Parallel and cut between two empty buildings to Main Street. It’s deserted, apart from the security guard in front of the post office. They wait until he goes inside and then run behind the post office and hide their placards in a dumpster.
    Harper appears from the other direction, his placard under his arm and his coat over its message.
    â€œLet’s see,” says Drumgold.
    Harper reveals it with a flourish. It reads:
BARF for the Beach!
    Drumgold laughs and applauds.
    Isora says, “Does it make sense?”
    â€œIt’s the impact that counts,” says Harper.
    He stashes his placard with the others and they stroll to Al’s.
    She’s just opening and says, “Ready for the march?”
    â€œIt’s a secret – us doing it,” says Isora.
    â€œI know that,” says Al. “You know you can trust me.”
    She makes them her Saturday Breakfast Special – fried egg and a sausage patty in a bun, with home fries – and they linger over it until nearly ten o’clock. By then, Al is busy preparing breakfast for three other customers. She winks at the friends as they leave and whispers, “Good luck.”
    Outside, Drumgold looks towards the post office and says, “There’s nobody there.”
    â€œIt’s not ten yet,” Isora points out.
    â€œYou’d think at least Lully would come,” says Harper.
    â€œHe’s away again,” says Isora. “I’m looking after George.”
    Drumgold wonders what he really expected to see. As he worked at his placard, he’d imagined a crowd gathering for the demonstration, waving signs and chanting, “Free the Beach!” before parading triumphantly down Main Street and along the highway to the Old Beach Road, Sgt. Chase and Camera Woman watching uneasily. He’d imagined the marchers arriving at the cottage, milling around the gates, Droopy and Diamond Head watching anxiously from inside the grounds, the chanting growing louder, the sudden quiet as Sgt. Chase tries to move the marchers on and they follow Drumgold’s example and sit in front of the gates, barring exit and entrance.
    But of course no-one is there. He remonstrates bitterly with himself for his expectation that anyone would care enough to protest.
    Isora says, “At least someone read our posters.”
    She points. Sgt. Chase is pulling in beside the post office. Hedrives around the back, past the dumpster, and pulls up in the loading bay on the other side of the building. Camera Woman is with him.
    â€œRead them – and took them down, I bet,” says Drumgold.
    â€œIf no-one shows up except us, it’ll be obvious we’re the ones making a fuss about the beach,” says Harper. “Then we’ll be the only ones who get in trouble.”
    Keeping the post office between themselves and Sgt. Chase, and waiting until the security guard, who is now pacing in front of the building, is looking away, they cross the street and hide behind the dumpster.
    It’s after ten o’clock and still there’s no sign of any marchers.
    Fifteen minutes later, Harper asks, “How long shall we give it?”
    â€œWe may as well give up now,” says Drumgold. “No-one’s going to come.”
    â€œWhat about our placards?” Harper asks.
    â€œLeave ’em,” says Drumgold.
    They cross Main Street and are about to slip down to the Parallel when Isora says, “Wait.” Ed, a shopping bag in one hand, is shuffling into the road around the post office. He