“Behave, Bruno,” berated Bob at a bewildered Bruno. “You’re nothing but a brainless boofhead.”
When Bob went to watch ballet and visit bistros, Bruno was banished to the back balcony, no longer Bob’s best buddy, but the bane of his life.
* * *
One day, bored and broken-hearted, Bruno made a beeline for Bob. He bounded onto the balcony rail, balanced brilliantly, and with a bloodcurdling bark, belly busted to the bitumen below. Nothing on Bruno was broken, but he was bruised and battered. Bob bent down on his backside and gave Bruno a big bear hug.
“I’ll be blowed, Bruno. What a bonehead I’ve been. I might have lots more booty, but I nearly lost my best buddy. Let’s go back to the bush where we belong.”
Big, boisterous Bruno Bright the blue dog and his best buddy, big-hearted, barefoot, bushie Bob, returned to the broken down barrack in the bush, way off the beaten track, out near the back of beyond, somewhere between Bandywallop and Bullamakanka.
“Blimey, this is bonzer. A bloke would have to have bats in his belfry, to leave all this, wouldn’t he Bruno? ” Bob bellowed.
Bruno barked and barked.
(Bruno kept his brocade basket, but don’t tell!)
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Another World
Carole Lander
Two shiny, black shoes stepped out of the car on to the gravel. Alicia, in her best Sunday clothes, crunched up the drive to her grandparents’ house. Her feet left tracks as she approached the elderly couple smiling from the doorway. After a quick hug, a peck on the cheek, she ran into the house. Her parents, fussing over baby Oliver, took much longer to make their entrance.
Alicia knew everything about this house. She’d been visiting it for eight years and, apart from the rooms that were out of bounds, she could conjure up its smells, colours and shapes even when she wasn’t there, just by closing her eyes.
Lunch was always very formal. Cutlery that she never used anywhere else (at home or in cafés and restaurants) appeared on the table. It was always shiny and Alicia sometimes helped her Grandma to make it that way. Such old fashioned rituals intrigued her, made her visits special. But, now that she had a baby brother, she despaired of ever again sharing those magical moments with her grandmother.
Even when he grew up, she couldn’t imagine Oliver wanting to help in the kitchen. She knew what boys were like. At her school, they enjoyed rough games and often spoiled the girls’ play by running too fast, shouting too loud. Right now, though, Oliver just gooed and gurgled, and every sound drew “Oohs” and “Aahs” from the grownups.
After lunch, Alicia was left to her own devices. Mum and Grandma went off to a bedroom with baby Oliver; Dad and Grandpa settled themselves in front of the cricket on television. They trusted her to amuse herself.
She picked up puzzles and books from her special corner, the one her grandparents made for her years ago, the one she always hid in when the adult conversation became too dull. But today, even her special corner was boring.
She knew all the books by heart. She could practically do the puzzles with her eyes shut; she’d done them so many times. Listlessly, she wandered out on to the balcony to look at the garden below.
Grandpa grew vegetables and Grandma tended the flowerbeds. Everything in their garden was impeccable.
It was a hot, summer day and Alicia’s clothes clung to her. She’d chosen the dress herself because it was so pretty. Right now, she wished she was wearing shorts and t-shirt. The black, patent leather shoes weren’t allowed in the garden so she was housebound.
Or was she?
Looking back to see if anyone was keeping an eye on her and realising that everyone was preoccupied, she kicked off the shoes and pulled the dress over her head. She placed them carefully under a chair, where they were not very well hidden but at least out of sight if anyone bothered to look out there, and ran down the stairs into the garden wearing just her underpants.
“Mmm, I love the smells of the herbs and roses. I know I shouldn’t but I always want to pick their petals,” she said to herself.
Alicia pricked her finger as she furtively stole a petal and glanced back at the house to see if anyone was watching. The tomatoes were ripening before her eyes and the strawberries were nearly ready to pick, peeking out beneath their cooling leaves. Alicia was in heaven.
“I think I might be a gardener when I grow up,” she said out loud. It would be so satisfying to dig her fingers and toes into the soil as she was doing now.
At the bottom of the garden stood the sweet corn, rows and rows of it, thick and bushy with the cobs becoming heavy. Every summer, she pretended it was a jungle and she was a hunter. Creeping through them now, she found herself at the creek that ran along the end of the property. It looked so cool and although Alicia wasn’t allowed to leave her grandparents’ garden, sloshing along in the water, she accidentally went past their boundary line.
Next door, the garden was quite different. There was no order, no rows of vegetables. It was almost as though she’d wandered into the Australian bush. From somewhere, she heard strains of music and, like the Pied Piper, it lured her in its direction.
There was an old shed behind a clump of banksia bushes and the music was coming from there. Tiptoeing in the door, she saw a woman sitting on a stool, stooping over something and singing along to the music.
“Never talk to strangers, Alicia,” she heard her mother’s voice in her head.
She obeyed the voice and didn’t talk. Instead, she sidled around the edge of the shed to get a better look at this stranger.
What she was leaning over turned out to be a potter’s wheel. The woman’s hands gently smoothed the wet clay as it grew and billowed under them, gradually taking the shape of a vessel.
Alicia remained unseen as the potter concentrated on her work and hummed over the noise of the turning wheel. Then, suddenly, satisfied with her bowl, she stopped, sat back and wiped her forehead with a cloth. White clay smudges made her look a little like a snowman and Alicia laughed out loud.
“Hello there,” said the woman. “Who are you?”
“I’m Alicia from next door,” she replied shyly, then more boldly, “What are you doing?”
“My name is Tamara and I’m a potter. I make things with clay. Come and look.”
Time stood still as she showed her young guest how a bowl could be fashioned from a lump of clay and where it would be fired in a huge kiln hiding in the corner of the shed.
“Pottery lasts forever you know,” explained Tamara. “People dig it up all over the world and it tells stories about how we used to live centuries ago.”
Alicia was intrigued. Who were these lucky people?
“I love playing at being a detective,” she told the lady.
“They’re called archaeologists,” Tamara explained. “Lots of the pots they find are broken now and they have to piece them together.”
“Like doing a jigsaw?” asked Alicia.
“Yes, that’s right. Let me show you how I make my plain white bowls look wonderfully exotic,” Tamara said, and showed Alicia an array of coloured bottles.
“I’ve been experimenting with design on my bowls, trying to make them look like ancient Egyptian ones. Come and see what I mean.”
Tamara took Alicia’s hand and led her out of the shed into the bright sunshine to show her the experiments she’d been working on. Pots were drying on makeshift shelves. While Alicia studied the figures on the bowls, Tamara explained how the Egyptian craftspeople used to make them so many years ago.
Alicia sat on the ground to listen and, when she looked up, Tamara had vanished. Instead, a tall woman with bronze skin and jet black hair stood before her. They were surprised to see each other. Alicia thought she must be dreaming when the woman spoke. Her voice was deep and musical, but she used a different language and Alicia couldn’t understand.
Bending down, the woman took the child’s hand and pulled her t
o standing. The potter’s shed was dark behind them and the music had changed. She didn’t recognise the instruments or the tunes.
Alicia’s eyes adjusted to the dark as she followed the woman inside. It had become incredibly hot, even in her underclothes. People were singing and there were lots of women working on pots. Nobody used the potter’s wheel; instead their long brown fingers were smoothing the wet clay into jugs, plates and bowls.
A little girl, about Alicia’s age, ran up to look closely into her face. Laughing, the child pointed at Alicia’s pale skin and said, “White.”
At least, Alicia was sure she said “white” even though she didn’t understand their language.
More children appeared, all wearing very little clothing and lots of jewellery. Alicia noticed owls, ravens and other strange shapes hanging from their necks. Before long, she was following them down to the creek to collect mud in leather buckets, which they carried back to the shed to give to the women.
“Can I help?” she asked one of them.
A big toothy smile seemed to say “Yes”, and clay was placed in her hands.
‘Mmm, I love the feel of this,’ she thought as she pushed and pulled, squished and squirmed, making unusual shapes with the clay.
Peals of laughter behind her made Alicia blush. Not for long.
A group of men arrived carrying baskets of fish, which they started to cook on a fire in the middle of the shed. The strong smell made Alicia feel rather sick. She ran outside for air and found Tamara fussing over her drying pots. She was talking to herself too.
“The Egyptians believed in gods and goddesses,” she was saying. “Some were half-animal, half-human. Their kings were called Pharaohs and when they died they were wrapped up and called mummies.”
Alicia realised that Tamara was talking to her, telling her about the Egyptians. How could she explain that she had just visited them herself?
The voice in Alicia’s head told her that she should really be getting back; someone might be worrying about her.
Tamara wouldn’t let her go without a souvenir, any bowl that she would like to choose and take home. Alicia picked a small dish with the image of an owl painted onto its surface.
“Thank you so much for a great afternoon,” she said and then ran back to the creek clutching her gift. There was no sign of Egyptian life here now as she rushed towards her grandparents’ garden.
As she emerged from the sweet corn jungle, she saw her mother leaning over the balcony of the house. Alicia thought she might be in trouble so she waved excitedly and called out that there were corns almost ready to be picked. Hopefully, Mum would think she’d been playing hunter in there for a long time. Perhaps, though, she would have to confess to disobeying the rules and wandering too far. But she wouldn’t be able to explain how she knew about the Egyptians.
Her father came out too and she realised that both her parents looked a little anxious. Perhaps she’d been away for many hours. Perhaps they were cross that she was wearing hardly any clothes. Perhaps she would be in trouble for all sorts of things.
They gave her a big hug when she clambered up to them and showed them her Egyptian bowl. She told them that she’d found it in the soil at the bottom of her grandparents’ garden. How else could she explain everything that had happened?
She wasn’t too sure if they believed her. Anyway, they didn’t shout or yell; they just suggested that she take a shower before afternoon tea.
On the way home, Alicia studied the mud under her fingernails, smiling to herself because it hadn’t come out in the shower. She announced to her parents, “When I grow up I want to be an archaeologist and travel the world.”
“Mmm,” came from both parents in the front of the car.
Baby Oliver gurgled; he obviously didn’t understand that big word.
Alicia kicked off her shoes. The dirt was under her toenails too. She leaned back, closed her eyes and the hum of the engine sent her to sleep, dreaming of Egypt.
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Wombat Cuddles
Karen Hendriks
Inside a soft, warm pouch, nuzzled a baby wombat, round and small. His name was Tonka. Tonka slept peacefully, tucked away safely inside.
As Tonka’s mum was foraging for grass, headlights pierced the starry night. A loud screech filled the air followed by a deadly silence.
Tonka’s world was shattered.
* * *
Warm hands pulled Tonka out of the pouch and into the dusky, nightglow. They gently placed him into a warm woollen beanie.
But where was his mum?
Shocked and stressed, Tonka was taken to the Townsville Billabong Sanctuary and given peace and quiet in a warm box.
‘If only Tonka had something to comfort him,’ thought his handlers.
He was given lots of human cuddles, but to give comfort when he was alone, a cuddly, snugly wombat teddy arrived.
The wombat teddy filled his heart with comfort. Everywhere that Tonka went, his wombat teddy went too. His strong teeth kept a tight grip.
The stocky, little wombat now felt safe and loved at the park.
Every morning, the keepers gave soothing scratches and wombat cuddles to Tonka. The little wombat learnt to walk in a harness around the park. Tonka starred in the wombat shows. He was filled with bravo and confidence.
Then one day, the air felt dangerous. The weather had changed into a nasty monster. The roaring, lashing, gnawing wind grew stronger and stronger, louder and louder.
Tonka bunkered down in his enclosure as the rain pelted. Crashing and roaring was everywhere; the wind was like the sting of a million bees. Tonka was trapped. His heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.
* * *
Tonka was found badly shaken with his wombat teddy. He needed much more than his teddy. Tonka needed human cuddles, but everyone was too busy rebuilding and fixing the park. There was no time for wombat cuddles, wombat walks or wombat shows!
Tonka was fed and watered but he felt all broken inside.
Withdrawn and unable to eat, Tonka hid. Not even a juicy carrot could tempt him.
Slowly, the park came back to life. Once again, Tonka went on wombat walks as the sunlight danced and played with the shadows along the path. Loud applause rippled through the air at the wombat shows. His wombat teddy was never far away.
* * *
Every morning Tonka has comforting wombat scratches and cuddles. Then Tonka and his wombat teddy curl together in the soft grass for a dreamy sleep.
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The Dumpster Ghost
Kaye Baillie
My Uncle Lenny is big, hairy and scary. He owns a posh restaurant not far from where we live. The last time I was there, Uncle Lenny expected me to eat a massive bowlful of garlic mussels. Too chewy! I kept spitting them into my serviette when nobody was looking.
When Frank the waiter took my plate away, I tried to grab my serviette – too late. Frank had already picked it up and given it a hard flick. Greyish-black, half-chewed, slimy mussels flew through the air.
Uncle Lenny glared at me and said I was a wowser.
Dad elbowed me. “Max, you’re going to ruin my plan.”
Plan, what plan? I hoped it had nothing to do with eating more mussels.
As we were leaving, Dad asked Uncle Lenny if I could work at the restaurant to earn some money in the school holidays.
When did I agree to that?
Uncle Lenny looked at me, then said, “Why not.”
I fumed all the way home. Did Dad bother to ask me first? No! My holidays were ruined.
I stared out the car window. Maybe I might get sick or break my leg or something.
We drove past the bike shop on the way home and there it was – the bike of my dreams. I sat up and watched it disappear as we turned the corner.
I wanted that bike more than anything. I’d never had a new bike. Maybe working for Uncle Lenny wouldn’t be that bad after
all.
* * *
The following week, I turned up at the restaurant. It was really busy. Uncle Lenny said to report to Frank, the head waiter.
I decided that Frank looked a bit shifty.
“How are ya, kid?” he said.
“Fine.”
“Hope you’re not scared of ghosts?” he said with a silly grin.
I shrugged. “Why would I be?”
“Strange things happen here,” he said. “But first of all, wash these.”
I stared at twenty lettuces.
I threw them into the enormous sink and swished them around in some water. “Finished.”
“No, no!” yelled, Frank. “You have to separate them and wash every leaf.”
I ended up washing hundreds of lettuce leaves. Wash, splat! Wash, splat!
Frank pointed to a pile of salad bowls. “Rip the leaves into these.”
They were really getting their money’s worth out of me. As soon as I finished, Frank called me over.
“Max, I need you to set some extra tables. Just copy the ones already set.”
I picked up the cutlery. Fork on this side, knife and spoon on that side. But where does the soup spoon go?
My uncle hurried past. “Max, do you know what you’re doing?” he grumbled.
My hands felt sweaty and I dropped a spoon. “Er, yes, Uncle Lenny.”
At the same moment, an old lady waddled past. She stood on the spoon, skidded and grabbed hold of the nearest person. Next thing I knew, she was at the desk yelling at Uncle Lenny.
Uncle Lenny waved me over. “Mrs Krank is very upset.”
I began to say what a nice boy I was when my mouth stopped working. I saw a big cloud of mist coming from the kitchen.
I pointed. “A g..g..g..ghost!”
Mrs Krank looked scared and screamed right in Uncle Lenny’s ear.
“What in the blazes is going on!” yelled Uncle Lenny.
He ran into the kitchen then came straight out.
“It’s all right, everyone. One of the dishwashers has broken down and is letting off a bit of steam. But I have an even better dishwasher. Come in here, Max.”
Short Tales 2 Page 2