Old Saltie

by Sue Bagust

  I tuned back in to hear Lizzie say “we must get together”, and wondered just how many people she had defrauded over the years, to so easily forget how much she had left owing me. I didn’t want to continue the relationship but weakly acquiesced as I looked at my watch and made an excuse to leave.

  “I’ll phone you”, called Lizzie, “we must get together” as she mimed phoning me.

  I hurried away, gratefully remembering that I hadn’t mentioned that I was married too, and even Lizzie would surely have lost interest by the time she hunted through all the Smiths in the local phone book.

  It wasn’t my choice

  I liked hearing the Mass in Latin. It was what I had always known, what I loved. The pomp and the majesty and the splendor of rolling phrases that I didn’t understand as a child, but that I knew represented the safety of my large, loving, family and everything we believed in, everything we chose to be, everything we were.

  Other families might be smaller, other families might have more money, but no-one else I knew had our security, our knowledge that if we didn’t stray from the path so firmly trodden by our parents and our grandparents, that we would be safe forever in this life as well as in the next.

  Naturally, I joined the convent as soon as I was old enough to take vows. All my family knew very early that I would probably have a calling. My next oldest and next youngest brothers became priests so the farm would pass to my oldest brother, unless of course he had a calling too. But he didn’t, so he became a farmer like Dad and Granddad before him, and our brothers became priests and I became a nun. My mother was so proud, with three of her children being called to serve our god.

  I liked being a nun. It was like leaving home to come home, safe and loved in a big family, surely the biggest family of all here on Earth. We all served where we were sent. My mother superior said I was good with children, so I trained as a teacher, and found that I liked the work.

  And so my life was complete, safe in my habit that meant so much to me and to my family, satisfying to belong to a group who all knew who we were and what we were meant to do, a joy to serve God daily.

  Then Vatican 2 came as the 20th century yawned into its middle age after the youthful wastefulness of two world wars, and changed everything.

  It wasn’t my choice.

  A little group of men in Rome made us, here on the other side of the world, change our whole way of life. They asked us to change our thinking, to become one with our secular community, instead of continuing to expect our secular community to honour and to respect us in our sacred community.

  They decreed that our mass, that glorious, soaring, paean of praise, must now be read in English so the congregation could understand it easily.

  They even made us change our habits. Our dress that said who we were and what we had vowed since medieval times, our long skirts and snowy wimples, were modernized and shortened and lessened into something resembling a nurse’s uniform, but in black instead of white.

  People didn’t recognize us any more, and no wonder because I didn’t recognize myself. Now I was a different person, not the youthful idealist who had joined the order in 1937, but a staid, middle-aged nun who was trying to look hip and with it, by shortening her skirts and showing her hair for the first time in over twenty years.

  Suddenly I had to reassess myself, and my church, and my whole way of life. This was not the church I had vowed to serve all my life.

  So I finally made a choice, and I left the order.

  The Return

  “Oh, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon”, she said as she reached for the pot holders to take the roasting dish from the oven, balancing the deep metal dish on the open oven door. As she basted the meat she continued to talk to me over her shoulder.

  “Dinner will be at least an hour”, she continued. “Can you wait that long, or are you starving now?”

  She replaced the dish in the oven, turned to me and smiled that lovely, long, deep smile that I loved so much, that started in her eyes and continued through every muscle on her face, until her whole face was alight with loving.

  “Can you wait an hour to eat?” she asked again.

  I smiled back, and nodded to her, just as the knock came on the door.

  “Now who can that be?” she asked, but it didn’t really matter. My wife always welcomed callers. She always said you don’t need an excuse to stop for a cup of tea with friends. I hoped she would never lose that loving generosity of spirit; that she would continue to welcome life with open arms and her wide smile.

  I saw the two policemen at the door through a mist, as they told her of the accident on the road. The mist grew thicker as my wife turned to me and screamed “don’t leave me, don’t leave”.

  But it was time to go, as the mist turned into a blinding light and I could no longer see her. But at least she knew I loved her, how much I loved her, to come back here to our warm, loving kitchen for our final goodbye.

  Two flies

  One hot, humid, Boxing Day afternoon, when the air was so still that I could hear the neighbours’ canary singing two houses away, I stood in my bedroom holding the phone, watching two flies circle down from the white ceiling, then fly back up, before drifting down again in lazy circles.

  Until that day, I didn’t watch flies. I didn’t notice, for example, that flies flew in straight lines, with a sharp 90 degree turn, then another straight line with another 90 degree turn, to make their jerky version of a circle. They were like two tiny mime artists, happy on their path until they find an invisible barrier. Certainly the flies were quicker at feeling the parameters of their space than a human like Marcel Marceau. They didn’t hesitate but would immediately turn to a new direction until the barrier of their self-appointed prison dictated another change.

  I watched those two flies for over an hour, as I stood barefoot from the shower, realizing that sea grass matting looks good but feels rough when you are barefoot. I listened, silent, as my best friend cried on the phone, and apologized, and explained how she began her affair with my lover because she was so lonely after her husband’s death.

  The room the flies have chosen for their aerobatic display is my bedroom; the crisp sharp black and white and red geometric patterns of the room echoed by the flies’ sharp 90 degree turns. I wonder if all flies make such sharp right angles, or if these flies are simply echoing the geometry of my doona cover over which they fly.

  The flies return to the ceiling to begin another downward sharp-angle spiral as she insists that she never meant to hurt me. She asks if we can still be friends.

  I hang up and go to look for some insect spray. Then I realize that I don’t own any insect spray; moreover the two I really want to spray with some lethal insecticide are my best friend and my lover. So the two flies live on.

  When I see a fly now, I remember that hot, still, Boxing Day, just one day after a laughing Christmas day, full of plans shared with friends and family for a wedding in June.

  I wonder if today’s fly is a many-times removed descendent of those two flies, who gave me something to watch that hot summer’s day while I learned how to detach and observe, and I am glad that I didn’t kill my innocent guests that angry day, so long ago.

  A Grave Matter

  “What were they thinking of?” he asked, incredulous.

  “You know what they are like”. She sighed. “They would never buy anything for my brother and his wife and not buy the same for us, no matter how much money your family has or whether we need it.”

  “But we’ll be buried in the churchyard here” he said. “In the family mausoleum. We don’t need two plots beside your parents and your brother and his wife.”

  “Yes” she sighed. “I know.”

  “You sound like you don’t want to”

  ‘Be buried?” she paused for a moment, then added “I don’t”

  “Well, not quite yet. I agree. But when the time comes.”

  “Look, I know we have to, but”

 
“but what”

  “I don’t have to enjoy it”

  “I’m not expecting you to!”

  She looked at him with that “whatever” expression that all women wear, when their men just don’t get it, so he tried again.

  “Our family has always been interred in the family churchyard. Ever since the first settler came here and started a farm”.

  “I know, but I hate that mausoleum. It’s depressing”.

  “Well, it’s not party city, I agree, but, well, it’s a mausoleum.”

  “It’s still depressing”. She sighed again.

  He had his mouth already open to argue the point, but that “whatever” expression on her face stopped him. “What’s the real problem?”

  She hesitated for a moment, then the floodgates opened. “Your family expects us to go to your family mausoleum. It’s an honour, I know that but I don’t like it and I don’t want to spend eternity there.”

  “Fair enough”

  “And I know that dad and mum are just being fair. They’ve prepaid their funerals and they bought funeral plots for them as well as for my brother and his wife, so they bought plots for us as well because they wouldn’t leave us out. You know what they are like. But I don’t want that either.”

  “What’s the alternative?” he questioned. “Cremation? And then what? A hole in a brick wall, behind a plaque? Or a rose garden?”

  “Why not scattered?” she asked

  “Well, that’s you all over, I guess” he joked.

  She joined him in a laugh. “Seriously, and this is a serious matter”

  He interrupted her “you might even say a grave matter”

  When they sobered up enough to talk she said: “No more. I hurt from laughing. Seriously, wouldn’t you rather have your ashes scattered on a sunny day in a nice place to be blown away on the wind?”

  He thought for a while, then commented “It may not be a sunny day”

  She sighed, so he continued quickly “But I do like the idea more than the family mausoleum. How do we tell the family?”

  She sighed again “I didn’t say that I had all the answers. I’d rather not be around when they find out because Krakatoa will have nothing on the fallout we’ll get from this decision”.

  “That’s it!” He was jubilant as he proposed a solution: “We’ll just leave a letter explaining our wishes, so we won’t be around for the fallout”

  “What?” she queried hopefully.

  “To be opened in the event of our death …. They can argue as much as they like, because we won’t be around”.

  “Now that’s what I call a funeral plan!” she exclaimed.

  Hit and run

  “Was it raining at the time of the incident?”

  I had expected questions, but questions about the hit and run that I witnessed, not questions about the weather. The barrister sighed.

  “Would you like me to repeat the question?” he asked, then repeated slowly “Was it raining at the time of the incident?”

  “No” I replied.

  “So it was a fine night?” He questioned quickly.

  I said slowly: “No. It was a miserable cold and wet night, but it wasn’t raining at the time that”

  The barrister interrupted. He really was a horrid little man.

  “How do you know? If you were a passenger inside a taxi how do you know it wasn’t raining?”

  I replied: “Because the taxi driver had turned off his windscreen wipers and because”

  The barrister interrupted again: “Thank you! Please just answer the questions that I ask.”

  This horrible little man really was getting to me. He was like a terrier, worrying a subject to death. He paused again, referred to some notes, sighed again as though at my stupidity and said: “You now agree it was a wet night. If it was wet – possibly raining – and dark, how could you see what happened?”

  I really wanted to tell what happened that night, despite his interruptions, so answered quickly: “Because it happened in the lane right beside me and”

  He interrupted yet again: “Do you wear glasses?”

  “Sometimes” I replied.

  “Were you wearing glasses at the time of the alleged incident?” he asked.

  I had to think about that question. Was I wearing glasses when I saw a car collect a scooter stopped at a red light? The car then reversed quickly away from the scooter and the rider lying on the road only to bump the car behind him, stopping right beside me. I was arms-length from him, separated only by our respective car windows. We could have touched if we had both wound down our windows and reached out. The driver glanced at his rear vision mirror, then looked sideways at me. I could see the shock on his face, I could even see his freckles stand out clearly because his face was so white, drained of blood.

  The driver looked forward again, straightened his shoulders, then drove over the scooter towards at the intersection to escape, wending his way with blaring horn through the traffic crossing the intersection.

  It definitely had rained that night. I still see the shimmer of the wet roads reflected by the street lights, the gutters running high, the wet gleam of raincoats as passers-by helped the young rider out of the gutter, where he had rolled quickly when he saw the car coming towards him. At least he had warning that time. He held his arm awkwardly and was not able to stand. I got out of the taxi to see if I could help, my taxi driver refusing to be involved “You don’t want to be a witness, miss, not in a court case. They tie you in knots there.”

  “Would you like me to repeat the question? asked the barrister wearily. “Were you wearing glasses at the time of the alleged incident?”

  Was I wearing glasses? I wasn’t reading or watching TV, so: “No.” I replied.

  “So you are sure you weren’t wearing your glasses.” He paused, riffled through some papers before he asked: “Are you sure you could see the alleged incident?”

  “Yes.” I replied.

  “Despite the poor visibility of a rainy night and not wearing your glasses?” he asked.

  “It happened right beside me.” I replied.

  “But you normally wear glasses that you were not wearing that night?” the barrister barked.

  “I don’t wear glasses all the time” I said.

  “It was dark, and raining, and you think” he paused again, before continuing “you think that you weren’t wearing your glasses at the time of the incident. Are you sure you could see what happened?”

  Maybe the horrible little man was right. Maybe I had imagined it all – or maybe that taxi driver was right. Right now I felt tied in knots, as though I had been knocked off my bike and left lying in the road, another victim of a hit and run.

  Remember Lot’s Wife

  Who am I? Why am I here?

  Why am I following this man into exile, leaving my home, my friends, my life? My husband strides ahead, up the unfriendly black cliffs, followed closely by our adoring daughters. As far as they are concerned, their daddy can do no wrong. I know they are young, but I do hope they learn how to think for themselves before they hit mid-life and discover they have nothing except grim piety to sustain them, or they will live a lonely life.

  Maybe that is what is wrong with me. Could this be my mid-life crisis? Or maybe I am just annoyed that my husband carries nothing of our worldly goods, but strides ahead buoyed by his certainty that his God will provide – and his knowledge that whatever his God doesn’t put on the table, his wife will. I know that I am annoyed that our daughters are carrying as little as they possibly can, leaving the bulk of our household goods for me to carry. Those lazy little girls could have at least offered to carry more of our load; they will certainly expect me to provide a meal for all of us when we reach our destination, whenever and wherever that is.

  I put down my bundles to remove a pebble from my sandal and rest for a moment. Everything has been in such a rush, since those strangers appeared and my husband took them into our home. I haven’t even had time to really th
ink about this frenzied rush to leave town. I’ve been too busy putting food on the table, washing and mending clothes, packing, cleaning the house before we leave, but now, on this long trek to god-knows-where, I wonder why I follow him, and our two selfish children. Life was good back home. I had friends, and neighbours who joked and laughed with me, and helped lighten my day. I will miss them. I will miss their laughter.

  Who is this man really: this man who rejoices in his belief that our home town will be destroyed? Why would he choose to follow a god who would kill our kind neighbours who offered help numerous times over the fence, our friendly grocer who delivers, our butcher who always shares the latest gossip, our baker who always recounts the latest joke, the charming beggar on the corner of our street?

  What am I trudging to; a life without friends, with selfish children and a man who often doesn’t even remember my name, much less offer to carry a parcel for me like the friendly beggar on the corner does. What will my future be like?