by David Vernon
Ref: Heaton, J.H., The Bedside Book of Colonial Doings, Cornstalk Publishing, 1986, p72
Pippa Kay is a Sydney-based author of two books: Doubt & Conviction: The Kalajzich Inquiry and Back Stories. She is a member of The Common Thread Writers Group who give her support and encouragement. Curiosity may be what killed the cat, but it can also stimulate story ideas and Pippa enjoys research. Being a wife, mum and grandma also keeps her busy.
My Ernest Decision
— Kylie Orr
We weren’t the church going types but Sally didn’t want to get married in a garden. People don’t listen in gardens she’d said. Too many distractions with barking dogs and noisy kids. A wedding is an important thing apparently; vows should be absorbed by all guests. Not sure why this is a priority when the guest list boasts the likes of Sally’s Aunty Dot with uncontrollable gas and a penchant for yelling out to every passer-by to fetch her a beer. But who was I to question?
The bluestone church on the way to Sunbury got the thumbs up. Quaint, unique and affordable. One view framed the gum trees, the wheat grass and the lonely shadow of a building standing defiantly. Perfect backdrop for photos, Sally commented. The other view was Tullamarine airport ferrying the people who wanted to get in and the others who wanted to get out. Planes soared above, shaking the ground as they passed overhead.
I was not sold until we met Reverend Ern. A short, rotund man who looked so old he was almost dead. His t-shirt stretched over his beer gut, with the words When God Made Me He Was Showing Off strained across the middle. His eyes squinted and blinked as he smoked a chain of cigarettes.
“I know an Owen,” he reflected, commenting on my surname. “Arthur Owen, lives out your way in Blackburn. Know him?”
“Afraid not, Reverend.”
“Could be a family member you never knew about.”
“Could be.”
“Excuse my rudeness. Welcome to my humble abode. A bit of a mess but they say a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind. I’d hate to see an empty desk,” he chuckled to himself. “Take a seat and we’ll get this paperwork over and done with. Drink?”
He creaked over to the fridge. Opening the door he revealed the contents, predominately of the alcoholic variety. A solitary bottle of tomato sauce stood on the top shelf.
“Let’s see, we have Crownies, VBs, Light Ice and half a bottle of Chardonnay. There’s tap water, tea and coffee of course.”
Sally sparked an interest at the mention of wine and accepted the offer. I opted for a VB, hoping to mask my obvious ignorance of modern reverends having a brewery stashed in their fridges.
The Reverend’s home broke all previous stereotypes of how church leaders reside. The blasting heater stifled any flash of fresh air that may have snuck under the front door. Cigarette butts cluttered ashtrays and the leftover foil plate from dinner lay guttered on the coffee table. The Reverend’s Phillip Morris dangled out of his mouth as he shuffled papers around.
Sally downed the last of her wine before the Reverend and I had even made a dent in our beers. The heat must have made her thirsty and it was a nice fruity white she’d said. The Reverend poured her another glass and watched with curiosity as her movements grew more fluid with every sip. I clenched when she stamped her empty glass on the coffee table and declared: “We’re going to write our own vows.”
“I have two passages you can choose from,” the Reverend stated without apology.
Sally raised her eyebrows, and attempted offence, but then broke into giggles.
“Yes, Sir!” she laughed as she stood and saluted him. I pinched her jacket, pulling her ever so slightly back into her seat. I filled her empty wine glass with water and passed it back to her, my glare urging her to drink it.
“Sorry, Reverend. Please continue,” I managed. Sally slurped and hiccupped beside me.
“Here’s the two passages you can choose from, along with a short list of songs that Beryl plays on the organ. Morning Has Broken is her speciality.” He looked up at Sally, who was sitting as quiet as she could, like a reprimanded schoolgirl.
He continued, “It’s two hundred and twenty dollars for the hire of the church, sixty of that goes to Beryl, forty goes to Marg who cleans the church for us, and the rest goes to the general fund. I like cash and if you can hand it to me in an envelope with three fifties, three twenties, and a tenner. Makes it easier for me to pay all the helpers.”
He handed us a piece of paper with two short verses on it, and a list of songs from some time in the last century.
“Have a good read of those passages. They’re not just words, they’re commitments.”
I shook the Reverend’s hand, yellowed nails and calluses revealing a hard life.
“Thank you, Reverend. We’ll let you know what we decide to go with.”
Sally leaned on me, giggling. She offered a limp hand to Ern, as though she was expecting him to kiss it. He avoided her hand, instead nodded, and muttered through a tight mouth, “See you on the 10th.”
The next time we saw the Reverend was on our wedding day. The groomsmen and I were there early heeding Sally’s threats about being late. Ern appeared in his robe, looking the part. He slapped each one of us on the back and asked me if I was ready for the execution. Polite chuckles all round and then a final cigarette before the ceremony. Guests started to arrive and Ern engraved his cigarette into the dirt with his sole before greeting people at the church doors. He was convincing with his Reverend smile and pompous old boy stance.
We assumed our positions at the front of the church. Puffed hair and sequinned frocks hid the real guests like fancy dress costumes at a masquerade ball. Ern had his eyes closed and his bible open, he swayed back and forth on his polished, church shoes all the while humming to the tune of Morning Has Broken played by Beryl. Sally had wanted Pachelbel Canon in D, and threatened to contact Beryl recommending she practice it but I’d managed to redirect her back to family table placing.
Beryl’s church hat with netting bobbed as she swayed to her own playing. She was dressed as though she’d been invited.
I surveyed the walls littered with plaster scars. The 15-foot ceiling was a haven for stray spiders looking to spin a web. A plane soared overhead, forcing guests to look at each other and share a laugh at the incongruity of the organ and the giant engine.
Ern opened his eyes and winked at me as the same chords that had been on repeat thanks to Beryl, introduced my bride.
The first stumble was put down to nerves, the second to the bulky dress. Sally’s father held her tight but she was a fugitive on the loose. The pews were her support posts and her laughter was the machine propelling her forward. The guests plastered polite smiles to their faces, sneaking glances back at me, assessing my reaction. I mirrored their expressions but the Reverend was not so kind. His eyes bore into her, but she didn’t notice.
Half a lifetime later, Sally rocked next to me, her lipstick smeared across her face, her breath reminiscent of a bottle of Dom Perignon. Ern continued to penetrate her with his stare forcing her to stand up straight. She pulled her lips back behind her teeth but the smile slid its way out. I tried to see past the stagger, the breath and the make up that had caused havoc on her face, but it was all too typical. The music had ceased and the guests were a murmur of concern in the background. Ern pushed forward with: “Welcome to the friends and family of Sally and Michael. We are gathered here today …”
Her dress cushioned the fall and her father came racing to her aid. I stood over her convulsing body, the laughter had consumed her, she wasn’t even trying to fight it now. Ern placed a hand on my shoulder and announced to the crowd, “Due to the situation at hand I think it would be best if the ceremony today was cancelled and we resume these formalities at another time.” Like a cackle of kindergarteners, the guests burst out into a mixture of protest and horror.
The Reverend led me to his quarters out the back of the church and sat me down. He went to his bar fridge that was hidden under a cloth with
a cross embroidered on it and handed me a beer. We said nothing.
I still see Reverend Ern every now and again. He calls in whenever he pays a visit to Arthur Owen over in Blackburn. The kids love to kick a footy with him in the backyard, as my wife and I watch on with a cup of tea. Ern and I often laugh about the day when that girl Sally and I nearly got married. I never told him that it was me who sent the bottle of Dom Perignon.
The facts:
My Ernest Decision is based upon an incredible character named Ern, who actually married my husband and I over ten years ago in Sunbury, Vic. Such an irresistible character was he, that a story needed to be developed around him. As my husband and I are still united, with nothing exceptional to report, the couple marrying in the story were completely fictitious but I’m certain exist somewhere. Admittedly, I may have dabbled with experimentation in a bottle of Dom Perignon. Or five.
A self-confessed failure at Trivial Pursuit, anything maths-related and creative marketing bios, Kylie Orr prides herself on her love of flannelette sheets and her devotion to writing. Her four children and one husband are constant sources of inspiration and brutal honesty. She has an Arts Degree with English Major, which led her to the completely unrelated fields of travel and human resources. Kylie has been a regular contributor to Fairfax’s parenting website www.essentialbaby.com.au for the past five years.
Shadow Dancing
— Pamela Janssen
I had known Victor for some years when Tim was still with us, but I never felt the need to build a rapport with him. He was not someone I would choose to cohabit with, or even share a common thread. We were thrust together. He was somewhat of a reluctant starter, but very early in our courtship I discovered that I felt immense anger towards him.
Now it’s that dreaded time again when I need to approach Victor. I don’t know why I am drawn to him. After all, I could get someone in, I’m getting past this. Something tells me I have one of life’s lessons to learn.
It’s been three weeks since our last encounter but it seems like yesterday as I teeter through the side door. A fiery rage is blazing in my belly as I glare at Victor.
Anger has always been foreign to me. I have never been able to feel or express it. At least, not until I struck up with Victor. As a child, anger was never displayed in our family. We were perfect. A model family. But I’m furious now. I’m boiling with rage. I drag Victor down the concrete steps and he lands awkwardly. I pull the rotary starter cord with an unleashing of womanly power. As Victor stutters and drones to a halt I recall a childhood memory, the dying seconds of a chook getting ready to join us for Christmas dinner.
Tim would always mow the lawns. I loved watching his meticulous care of our garden. He was always patient with the temperamental whipper-snipper. He would thread the cord, mix the fuel and manoeuvre the machine to make precise contact with the grass growing up the fence. This was way beyond my capabilities.
I feel my world is stuffed now, and it makes me wonder how I’m going to creep vaguely forward towards normality. I am beginning to think it’s time to sell up and get right away. The garden, the house — it’s all too depressing. Get rid of all this furniture. The Wedgewood, the Waterford crystal vase Tim gave me. Too many memories.
I try Victor again with less force and more precision, only to be landed with another dying chook. My heart pounds to the rhythm of Meat Loaf's A Bat Out Of Hell.
“One last pull!” I scream. “Come on Victor, you bastard.” Victor fails to oblige.
Dejected, I drag him up the steps and back to the shed. I am defeated and broken again.
Sunday is God’s day of rest for some, but it’s Victor I need to pay homage to this holy day. With dripping palms I cross-check. Fuel, yes; oil, yes; catcher, yes. I prime Victor’s fuel. You ninny, I tell myself. You didn’t prime the fuel last time. Victor starts first pull. I discard my sweater as my body warms.
Now it’s just Victor, me and the back lawn. We are as one. Spring rains have bestowed lush growth on my hallowed turf. Up with the throttle to deafening decibels and forward we trudge over the thistles and the pretty yellow daisies and, to my delight, Bella’s poo. Looking back and admiring the freshly cut grass, my path resembles the moss green carpet runner in Aunt Helen’s sitting room. Victor and I do an about turn and complete the next runner and the going starts to get tough. My back aches as Victor becomes heavier with each plod in the squelch. My feet are soggy, my camel desert boots are a misty shade of green, as Victor falters, coughs and groans to a stop.
My anger moves to a new level. I unleash a flurry of words too frightening to print as I give his rear wheel an almighty kick. Frustration, despair, anger, loneliness and sadness fly from my boot. This is crap. Gotta get away from this hovel, it’s a lifeless existence. Maybe Anglesea, contemporary design, no clutter. A coastal native garden. Victor free.
I have a flashback to the emotional dredging I suffered with the sudden loss of Tim some months earlier. Rejection by so called friends and acquaintances who couldn’t mention Tim’s name, let alone say the word suicide.
I scream my despair to the heavens as Victor lies motionless at my feet. Bella nuzzles my calf sympathetically. Stroking her gives me comfort. We sit together on the garden seat and admire the carpet runners. Mowing that much was an achievement in itself.
I can’t bear to look at Victor so I focus on Bella and the bond we have. She understands. Her eyes send a message to me that all will be okay, the future will be bright. I get Bella her favourite biscuit and a mandarin for myself.
We sit together devouring our sweet treats, then I drop the peel on the lawn and head once more towards Victor. Maybe the catcher is full. I open it to find it full of wet mushy grass and the pungent smell of dog poo. After emptying the catcher, the whole task seems lighter. I unleash the throttle as Victor roars to an idle and again we work as one; over the mandarin peel to the finish line, and the task is done.
I am proud of my efforts and don’t even mind the spots I have missed.
“Job well done, Bella. Let’s sit down for a bit.” Maybe this is a tiny step forward.
“Look at all that new growth near the back gate, I think Spring is on its way.”
As Mr. Lamb my old hairdresser in Rowens Road used to say, the difference between a good and a bad haircut is two weeks. I suppose you could liken that to grass as well.
Three weeks pass, and a lot happens in that time. A weekend away in Echuca with the book club girls. Aunt Helen’s eightieth birthday. Bella’s desexing at Waverley Vets.
Now a beautiful crisp morning greets me. Gentle rain overnight and sunshine streaming through my window. My thoughts immediately turn dark. Rain and sunshine, what does that equate to? Friggin’ growth, yes the lawn. Rain and sunshine together: a deadly mix. Time for you-know-who.
I drag him down the steps, as Bella disappears behind the lemon tree. I cross-check Victor, and to my astonishment he starts first pull. I kind of feel okay about Victor today. The sun is shining on his carburettor; he even looks like he’s grinning at me, how weird.
We set off mowing in neat little rows. Tim always mowed on the diagonal, reminds me of the MCG on Grand Final day — perfect. He loved the footy, went for Melbourne.
The grass growing around the fences doesn’t seem to bother me anymore: I quite like the rustic look. I remember when Tim planted Shadow Dancing irises near the back gate — they always flower in early spring. Each year he would place a bunch of the most perfect deep purple blooms on the kitchen bench. With a note. “I will always love you Mum.”
The tragic loss of Tim crushed me. That won’t ever leave me, but he will always remain in my heart. I sometimes feel alone, but I can catch up with Sarah and Dave as often as I want. I love book club. I might even go to Europe in the summer.
Perfect early spring morning. Bella’s awake first and downstairs scratching at the back door. Slippers on with haste to let her out. Opening the door I can see a few early irises near the back gate covered with morning d
ew.
“Time for a long walk Bell.” As we stroll, we noticed our neighbours tending their gardens. We also notice a man trying to start another Victor. He looks really angry, and I find myself wondering what might have happened in his world.
Returning home I check the mailbox. There’s only a flyer: “Pete’s Mowing, reasonable rates, prompt and reliable service. Call for a quote.” Inside, I put the kettle on. While it boils I take Tim’s vase from the sideboard, rinse off the fine film of dust and fill it with water. Arranging three perfect Shadow Dancing irises in the vase, I proudly place it on the dining room table to catch the morning sun.
It’s time for me to start living.
“Where's that flyer, Bella?”
The facts:
I lost my younger son Tim to suicide in 2009. He was twenty-nine. Tim loved the garden and he took pride in his Shadow Dancing Irises. I now nurture them in his memory. Suicide is often a hidden tragedy. I hope in my writing I can give a glimpse of the heartache suicide brings to our communities. My wish is to obtain enhanced mental health services to the most vulnerable and their families. Writing has given me a medium to express my grief and work positively towards healing
Pamela Janssen is a writer from Victoria.
Stew and Sinkers
Debra Booth
The flour bag of dingo-bait thudded against the side of the horse, and dust flew high as Eric careened into the yard. Spring had spawned dingoes in plague proportions, and his Dad and the other farmers were out setting traps throughout the district. But Eric had forgotten about the bait, and even the dingoes, after what he’d just seen.