Diamonds in the Mud and Other Stories

by Joy Dettman

  Everything is plastic now. Life is plastic. It bends around corners, it curls. The pipes from the bathroom are plastic; the sewerage runs in plastic pipes. They will last forever. In a thousand years, will an archaeologist dig carefully around a plastic circle, remove that pipe and wonder at its use? No more ashes to ashes, no more dust to dust. What a world we live in. Even our words are plastic these days, our truth is plastic – or elastic.

  I remember a time of no plastic and no sewerage pipes, when we sat on a plank in the outhouse, a long plank, polished smooth by the many bare backsides that had perched over that unfillable hole, a dusty candle in a green enamel holder at one end and spiders in every corner. The candle lasted all of the years of my childhood for few remained in that smelly old lav long enough to bother lighting it. A not so sterile, sterilised world back then, smells were a part of life, spray-cans of perfumed deodorants not yet invented, and toilet paper a luxury item, rarely sighted. Newspaper sufficed at our house, newspaper cut to wipe size and threaded on string with a giant bag-needle.

  ‘Get the bag-needle and cut some paper for the lavatory, one of you kids.’

  Small hands wielding large scissors with precision, they threaded that sword sharp needle with its curved, swan’s neck and an eye large enough to take string. Today’s children wouldn’t be allowed near such tools.

  Danger was accessible in my childhood. We feared snakes and mad dogs, bad men in cars, but little else. Sharp tools were kept in the middle drawer of the kitchen tallboy, with the folded butcher’s paper, the used brown paper bags and the twists of saved string. Birthday presents came wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. No sticky tape back then, no plastic bags, no television. We had a radio but the battery was saved for the six o’clock news broadcast and for famous tenors on Sunday night.

  Distant now, my childhood, just a scattering of disjointed memories, of outdoor lavs and paper whistles.

  One small whistleblower has exchanged his whistle for a bottle. I hear him from his cot close by. A fine boy that one – will he sleep and dream of when he is a big man, not required to have a nap, while I sit outside his window and dream of when I was a child?

  One whistleblower is behind the garage. With toys aplenty, he prefers the mud. I must watch out for this one. He has explorer genes, prefers nature’s eternal playthings, sand and stone, puddles and mud. He will find a pathway to me, careless of his shoes and brand new jeans. This world has not conditioned him yet to fear.

  I glance to the right, the left, overhead. Was that a raindrop, or an incontinent bird flying by? Rain will end the tennis match. Sharp eyes, busy bones, those players cannot sit still, the ones with the sharp eyes and busy bones always needing to do, do, do. Like me, perhaps. I need a reason to be still. That is why I sit here, in the wind, stuck between a rock and a hard place. That is why they are down there, hitting balls. They don’t approve of my reason to sit still – nor do the experts.

  Surely the world is a mote too heavily populated by experts who preach their gloom, their doom, death and destruction on every corner. I preferred the past when each man was responsible for his own decisions, when society was less controlled and each child capable of original and unique thought. Now they are conditioned early to become one with the bleating herd, all baaing in unison while attempting to wag their cropped tails. Give me the old woolly headed ewe who evaded the cutting band, who kept her long daggy tail and her horns that now protect her head when she rams it daily in frustration at brick walls.

  I glance at the brick wall that hides me. It’s built of clinker brick, rough to the touch, sharp, and would gouge my head should I attempt to ram it. In my youth, clinkers were the mistakes in brick manufacturing, the discards. They could be purchased cheaply. Now the brick factories make them that way – make them with uniform sharp edges. They are more expensive than perfect bricks.

  ‘It’s forty–love.’

  ‘It’s thirty–fifteen.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘We got the second point. It was in.’

  ‘It was out by an inch.’

  ‘Put your glasses on.’

  Competition is not yet dead. From the garage I hear children’s voices mimicking their parents.

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You did so.’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘You did so.’

  ‘Compete,’ I whisper, and I look towards the dark clouds. ‘Let them learn to compete. Don’t let my children be penned sheep, all bleating in unison.’

  A drop of rain falls heavy onto my face, then a second onto my hand. I stand, bury the evidence, push it with my index finger deep into the mud. Then I walk to the corner.

  Wrong way, go back! The barbecue is burning, the children waiting for a sausage. It’s down the south side for you, old girl. It’s through that mud for you.

  The garage is empty. I remove my shoes, clean mud from them with a spade, and on stockinged feet I creep into the house, via the garage door, then fast into the toilet where I clean the last mud from my shoes with powder scented, floral toilet paper. Flush it away. Flush it down those plastic pipes. My hands washed with perfumed soap, I take a peppermint from my pocket, chew and suck on it greedily, needing its masking scent to work fast.

  Shod again, smelling pure enough to play Nanny, I return to the party.

  ‘Where you been, Nanny?’

  ‘Just having a look around, my darling.’ Elastic truth.

  Perhaps I’ll have another look around later – before I cut that cruel cake, stiff with too many candles.

  The Small Weed

  In the beginning there was the sun and the earth, the wind and the rain and snow on the distant mountains, there was the cycle of the seasons and crops for all seasons. There was the singing of the birds, the lowing of the beasts and the laughter of children. And the people praised the goodness of nature, and daily gave thanks to it.

  And a thousand seasons came and went, and over all of the earth there was a garden where every living thing flourished. And in time, there was abundance so the people built a strong storehouse in which to place this plenitude, and to the people that store became a great joy, and the sight of their excess produce moved them to give thanks to the great sun and the cooling rain and to all of nature’s goodness.

  But this storehouse was coveted by powerful men, born with the desire to govern all things. They sat for many days in conference, searching for a name for the provider of this goodness, for only by giving it a name could they harness its power. They named it God.

  Now, with God locked inside that grain store, each year the powerful could demand greater offerings from the land. Was it not God who provided this plenty? Was it not His due to receive a fair share?

  In time, the powerful named themselves priests of God, and they ate very well of these excess offerings and grew fat on them. But when the crops failed and the people wished to take a little of what they had stored, the priests locked themselves inside the storehouse – so they might better communicate with God and hear His new demands. He had many which the priests communicated to the people.

  God was angered by his paltry storehouse, they said, and this is why the crops had failed. God decreed that one in four men must leave the fields and go to the forests to fell the trees. And God decreed that one man in four must go to the mountains and cut stone so a mighty building could be built, a temple fit to house their imprisoned God.

  And the trees were felled and the birds flew away, and no bird-song was heard. And the land lay uncultivated and the yield of crops was small and all over the land there was hunger and the children no longer laughed and played. They toiled.

  Thus it came to pass that over all of the land great temples were erected, but they were empty of Goodness and of God. Then the harsh winds came from the south, for there was no mountain to catch it or turn it away. And the winds came in from the north, but the forest and its protection was gone. Now the fertile fields became a desert, and the children wept
and hunger swelled their bellies and there was much death and only the birds of carrion flew the skies. There was cursing of God amongst all of mankind, there was weeping and wailing and blame directed at the priests, who spoke to them from behind heavy stone doors.

  ‘God has been stolen by your enemies while you wail to Him, you fools,’ the priests said. ‘Gather your weapons and march against those who have taken Him.’

  So the people waged war on each other in order to recapture God. And there was blood over all of the land and the stench of rotting corpses. But the armies could not recapture Him.

  Thus it came to pass that each group of men engineered from tales long told a version of his own God, and these they carried before them into battle. And the God grew thick and fast. The theory of nature’s Goodness, of that first simple God, was long forgotten.

  How different now the minds of mankind.

  God demanded retribution. God forgave. God was black, and He was white. God rode in a golden chariot. He rode on a donkey’s back. God demanded the sacrifice of youth. God turned the water into wine. And as each group of mankind now spoke a different tongue, so the names of their gods were legion – though their demands were much the same: ‘Kill thy neighbour,’ He decreed. ‘Tear down the temple of your enemy. Strike him, smite him, rape his wife, murder his children until he submits and bows low before your God.’

  Forgotten by all was earth’s garden. No green was left upon the land. Forgotten by all was that first strong storehouse where the simple people gave thanks to nature’s goodness. Bombs had levelled it and turned the fields to glass where no man might tread. All that had been good and godly was now buried deep beneath glazed rubble.

  And many years passed, and the myriad gods of man showed him new excesses, feeding his needy greed to control, as man left the land to dwell in the dark cave of great cities where there was starvation and plague and grey cement covering the land. And in the sky an evil yellow haze blocked out the sun, and no rain fell upon the earth, and trees were only fables born of fairytales.

  ‘What is a tree, Mummy?’

  ‘It was a . . . it was . . . colourful birds nested in the trees.’

  ‘What’s a colourful bird, Mummy?’

  ‘It’s a . . . once upon a time there was . . . colour.’

  Grey children fought with the grey rats in the grey rubble for a grey crust. Grey women walked the streets, selling their grey children for a glass of grey water. And the weeping was loud over all of the earth.

  Then came the shaking of the earth and a rumbling from the rubble mountain, then from it gushed a fire, terrible to behold, and all over the land great gashes opened in the earth, and a terrible wind, raised up from hell, stripped the land bare. And grey buildings fell and were swallowed up by the earth and in the sky every mote of grey dust had collected from every corner of the earth until even the sun became grey. And the people could not see their enemies.

  How can mankind wage war on those he cannot see?

  There was much death before the winds stilled and the earth steadied, and from the heavens a cleansing rain fell on the new mountain range to the south.

  Then it came to pass that in a sheltered corner, buried deep beneath the bruised earth, an ancient seed had swollen with moisture. Now it pushed its small green head up to greet the sun. And two small leaves, cupped in prayer, opened to a cleaner sky.

  Two waifs, playing in the rubble, came upon the green thing growing there. They knelt beside it, staring in awe, for they had seen nothing like it before.

  ‘Who are you?’ they asked. ‘Why do you wear the colour of fables?’

  And God looked up at the waifs, and He shuddered, and his tender new leaves trembled.

  ‘I am but a small weed,’ He said. ‘Please leave me alone.’

  Good Publicity

  For many years now I have been a familiar fixture in my local library, seated at a corner table, surrounded by reference books. During these years my pencil and paper have given way to a laptop computer and I have watched children grow into adults, watched adults grow old. I’ve had readers approach me, assuming I am an employee. It happened again on a bleak day in July.

  ‘Excuse,’ he said. ‘I am look for the book . . . for my daughter . . . I ’ave two . . . how you say? Becoming young lady. Yes. And viss no mama. You understand? I am think there is book I gettink. Yes?’

  How I felt for him and his girls, for I too had been at that difficult age when my mother died, although my dear father had not been so thoughtful. Peggy, my cousin, twelve months my junior, had instructed me. I found several excellent books, suitable for twelve to fourteen year old girls, then I walked with him to the counter where he presented his library card.

  Zolton Verona. How well he suited his name. A devastatingly attractive man, his dark hair silvering at the temples and brow, his shirt and suit immaculate – and such a caring man. I felt an instant attraction and during the following week, spent more time watching for him than at my work.

  He returned the books the following Saturday afternoon. He took my hand and carried it to his lips. That is the instant I fell in love, for the first time in my forty-nine years of life.

  ‘There is a little coffee shop around the corner. Would you . . . ?’ I asked, unable to meet his eyes.

  We sat for two hours, discussing many things. He spoke of his wife, lost to cancer, and of his daughters. ‘I make vow to my vife ven she is die. I say, your daughter vill vant for nothink. I vill be mama and papa.’

  How did it happen, and so quickly? How did a plain, middle-aged author wake up one morning beside a god?

  ‘My papa, he vas a cold and very cruel man. He do this,’ he said. I was holding his hand, tracing a long scar across his palm.

  ‘I vas child prodigy. My papa, he steal music from me – viss the knife. Ven I am no longer play concert circuit I become teacher.’

  I kissed his dear scarred hand that all night had played concertos on my soul to the accompaniment of the overture to William Tell, one of our favourites.

  We shared so much, a love of classical music, of fine restaurants and long beach rambles. I was finally living the life of one of my fictional heroines. Of course, when Peggy, my cousin, called in to sing the praises of her latest conquest, I spoke to her of my own love.

  ‘Verona? He sounds familiar,’ she said. A computer operator, her positions as temporary as her male friends, Peggy suffered from an overload of experience and information. ‘I’ve heard that name before, mate.’

  ‘Of course you have. It’s from Shakespeare.’

  ‘Could be. It had something to do with a school.’

  Such a capable man, my Zolton. I watched enthralled as he took tools to my dripping shower and attached a new shower rose. ‘You ’ave very old pipe, my darlink,’ he explained. ‘Is rust in him, vitch make trouble viss vasher. I fix for you. Also fix his . . . how you say? Thump-a-thump-a-thump.’

  The water pipes were on the west wall, except for the one feeding my bathroom, which ran beneath the floorboards. He assured me that access could be gained to it, and the following Sunday he located an ancient access door, hidden behind my Daphne bush and unsighted by me in all the years I’d lived in that old house. On his hands and knees he crawled into the musty cave where, by torchlight, he laboured. By evening he had replaced the entire length of galvanised water pipe with plastic, making the final connection on the outside wall.

  ‘You are a genius, darling. What did I ever do to deserve you?’ I asked as we ate our evening meal.

  ‘I love,’ he said. ‘Ven I love, my voman she ’ave all vot is best I can give.’

  Cousin Peg called me from her place of work the next day and I was effusive with my praise of Zolton.

  ‘You know how my bathroom pipe has had that banging vibration for years? Well Zolton fixed it yesterday,’ I said. ‘He’s so clever, Peggy. I am so lucky.’

  ‘He’s a plumber, is he?’

  ‘No. No, he teaches music.’

&nbs
p; ‘Where?’

  She gasped when I mentioned the name of an elitist boys’ school, and for a moment I waited. Peggy was slow to continue, but continue she did. ‘Sorry to do this to you, mate, but you know how I told you I connected Verona with schools? It wasn’t Shakespeare. He used to be the handyman and gardener at the school where my second last boss’s fifteen year old goes. Zolton Verona tossed him through a plate glass door. I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it. He probably did if he’s anything like his father –’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘What? Verona tossing him through the door or the kid deserving it?’

  ‘Zolton is a good, kind and gentle man, and I have to go, Peggy. I’m expecting a call from my editor.’ I hung up. We were cousins; other than blood, we had little in common.

  In the following weeks Zolton helped me choose a new car, a small red Honda. ‘Nice bright colour for your new life, darlink,’ he said. Since Father’s death, I’d been driving a twenty year old Merc; the Honda was a joy to drive. I did little writing but life was wonderful. We painted my kitchen, ate at restaurants, spent weekends in the country, and when I expressed concern that I was taking him away from his daughters, he told me of his old mother, who lived with him and his daughters.

  ‘She is ’appy viss grandchildren. Poor Mama. She is need operating now but the vaiting vill be three year. Ve ’ave no . . . what you say? Private?’

  ‘Private medical insurance.’

  ‘Yes. Ve ’ave none of this.’ He looked at me with troubled eyes. ‘It vill be much, thousands for doctor, for hospital.’

  ‘An operation on the hand shouldn’t mean a long stay in hospital, darling. One night perhaps.’