Reluctant Activists

by Helena Phillips

  He was clearly angry with her. He had disagreed with her suggestions attempting to soften her anger with his clarity. Now, he refrained from taking her to task whilst she was suffering. It was what he was holding in which made their conversation uncomfortable. Yet, she asked him to stay. He shook his head, assuring her he would be back later in the day. With that she had to be content.

  Further signs of life emanated from the house. After her time with Torrenclar, Homarta began to raise herself a little so she could peer over the heap of rubbish on which she lay. The tin rattled as she shifted her now light weight. She watched as a curious face came to the window and peered out seeking the source of the noise. Unsure, she decided to raise her hand and wave. The face drew back. Lights came on in different parts of the house and were switched off again. Time passed. The back door opened.

  She watched as Bridey stood hesitating on the rickety steps. Homarta attempted a vague smile of welcome which appeared false even from the inside; so unaccustomed was she to helplessness. Bridey made her way towards the rubbish pile, and Homarta was impressed by the courage it must have taken. Half way, she paused, uncertain. Shock leapt to her face. Homarta was unsure whether it stemmed from sudden recognition, or that Bridey had been struck by the change in her. Either way Homarta, desperate to get on with the business of making amends, was determined to connect with her again. This time she would reign in her desire for control. This time she would not take over. Homarta doubted she could undertake such a task as well as might be needed, but she was desperate. She noted the limp and saw Bridey was still in pain but could hobble with crutches, only using her left foot for balance. Must give her another treatment, she thought to herself. Then she remembered her powers were no longer available.

  Bridey moved towards her. “I know you,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  Homarta considered before answering. “I’ve had a bit of a setback since we last met.” She was staggered and affronted by Bridey’s quick response.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m glad. You deserve all you got.” Even Bridey, who should have been regarding her with respect, was keen to turn the knife. She had appeared fragile and weaker yesterday. “Because of you, I will probably lose my job. My foot is killing me. The crutches are extremely awkward.” Pausing for breath, she continued “I’ve not been able to drink, or have a shower, and there’s no water for anything.” She stopped again before winding up for the finale. “And another thing. I now have no bike, which is clearly your fault. I will have to walk up to the shops, which I can’t face, to buy water.” Such a long outburst would normally have brought on, either a round of applause from Homarta, or a brusque set down. Instead she felt guilty.

  “Why no water?”

  “Apparently your little display yesterday broke some major water main, and now the pipes are filled with mud. It’s going to take days for it all to be dug up and replaced.”

  Homarta cringed. Before she could attempt reconciliation, Bridey took off like a startled rabbit back to the house. Homarta too had heard the rapping on the front door.

  ***

  Bridey

  That was satisfying! A real serve. But, we were interrupted too soon. In the middle of telling her off about my plumbing, I heard a knock, and before it was possible to run (hobble) inside, my mother was at the side gate. More disaster loomed. The attempt to race, carrying crutches, didn’t work, and it was excruciating. It was imperative to prevent my mother from coming into the backyard. The pain in my foot brought me up sharp bringing with it a rush of fear that I’d done myself another injury. My arrival at the side gate coincided with Mum’s head appearing over the top. Now what? She was going to have to come in this way. Suddenly, my throbbing foot became a blessing in disguise. The gate was awkward and, stepping backwards, I only slightly exaggerated the pain on my face which instantly drew her attention.

  “What’s wrong with you? What happened to you? Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Determined always, mother was not normally so concerned. Drawing her towards the back steps and making much of needing an arm to hold on to as railings were non-existent, I managed to get her inside without her becoming aware of my other visitor. This was well done because Elaine missed nothing in the usual course of events. Sorting chairs also distracted her attention. My foot needed elevating and I managed to strategically place both to face the window into the backyard. This meant she was forced to sit opposite. Any confidence in Homarta’s capacity to lie low was limited to nil. She appeared to be completely oblivious to the odd nature of her appearance in my life and indeed in my backyard. Just in time, I stopped Elaine from filling the kettle which would have meant her being able to look out the window.

  It had been a lifelong habit to show no emotion when it came to my mother. Such revelations usually set off a string of events which continually made things awkward between us. But, in this case, the explanation about the pipes and my disheveled appearance seemed to strike the right note. She pulled out a chair and sat down. The stress of all this stuff was becoming extreme. Focus on your breathing Bridey.

  “You worried us, of course, with the earthquake.” Now it’s me who’d caused it. She paused for emphasis, continuing once she had ascertained my lack of intention to respond. “I rang your phone several times last night and then remembered you work Friday nights. When you still didn’t answer this morning, I was left with no choice but to come around and check things out for myself.” All this was said in a slightly affronted and very defensive tone. I suddenly recalled my problem with water. Here was a way Mum could make herself useful and also disappear while problems with Homarta were cleared up.

  “Mum, could you possibly drive up to the shops and get me some water? My foot caught under my bike yesterday, and I can’t face the walk. I’m dying of thirst.” If only she would just go.

  “Have you had it x-rayed?”

  Damn! This was going to be much more difficult than expected.

  “No, it’s just bruised,” I tried. But not one to let things go without a fuss, she continued along.

  “You still should have it looked at.” She glared at me. “And then you can come home until the water is sorted.”

  There was no room for argument here, but it was a familiar road.

  “No, it doesn’t need x-raying. It’s already much better this morning. It was running on it to try to let you in before you went away again, that’s made it sore.” How inventive we become under pressure. “What would be really helpful would be for you to buy me some supplies. Please.”

  Elaine was a very determined woman, but she knew she had bred a very determined daughter, and there was no use arguing. She began to pick up her bag.

  “What else do you need besides water? Do you have food?”

  It crossed my mind to say no, because food was always a complicated subject between us, but I thought first and decided two things. One was, it was important to eat, whatever rubbish my mother thought good for me, and second, this was a way of getting her to take longer at the supermarket. She might even pay for it, I thought hopefully, because money was going to be very tight this week.

  “That would be lovely,”

  Elaine picked up her bag setting off with an air of caring for her daughter in the way she thought best. Relieved, my thoughts returned to my other difficulties. A minute or two passed wondering where my crutches had got to, how Mum had missed the odd nature of same, and how to manage affairs in the backyard. Before any conclusions had presented themselves on any of these matters, there was another knock on my front door. Thank goodness I hadn’t set off outside immediately. The crutches were missing. Why couldn’t Mum have left the door unlatched? But Elaine was incapable of being in a house where the doors were unlocked. Hopping around was time wasting, but my crutches materialised outside the back door. The knock came again, loud and demanding. A bit rich, I thought, even for Mum. She knows about the foot.

  I yanked open the front door to be met with another rude shoc
k. There were two men regarding me with interest. One, I’d seen before and had hoped never to come across again, and the other looked a bit off. Between the two of them stood my bicycle.

  ***

  Sandro had argued with Flagran about the matter far into the night and again over his solitary (and only in the sense that he was the lone eater) breakfast. Flagran was determined the bike should be returned. Sandro couldn’t see the importance of it, but Flagran was certain the next part of their now joint quest would be thrown off if the stolen bike was not returned to its rightful owner. They had spent considerable time in the pub, with Sandro consuming a great deal more beer than he would have normally, and Flagran gaining vim and vigour in his excitement over the quest – this being the search for Sandro’s father. Together, they had wended their happy way home and then stayed up far into the night, with Sandro sharing his sorrows over a bottle of single malt.

  The morning had arrived with Sandro groggy and resentful about being raised by a larger than life Caretaker with a completely clear, if somewhat manic, head. Flagran was determined he could find the house as he still retained his sense of where he was supposed to be at any one point. He hadn’t informed Sandro that Bridey was to be included in the mission the Caretakers were to take on board. He merely alluded to the fact that his friend Homarta was likely to be there, and he was keen to see her today. At any rate, he had insisted, the bike must be returned. He had dragged the reluctant Sandro out into the street and run behind him as he rode the bike towards Clifton Hill. Sandro envied the ease with which he was able to catch up no matter how fast a pace was set.

  On reaching the residence, which Flagran was convinced was the one they wanted, Sandro had been less than happy. He drew back. Surely, this was not the right house. Flagran had made a mistake. But, his companion was cheerfully certain this old, broken down house, desperately in need of some paint, and perhaps indeed a change of colour from the horrible blue it sported, was the correct abode. Sandro had gone along with the idea of turning up at the front door and knocking to offer his apology. Sandro was not big on apologies. They seemed overrated to him. Nothing was achieved except humiliation and then smug satisfaction on the part of the receiver. Flagran had categorically disagreed on this point. An apology was what was required. Sandro knew he was strong and determined by nature, and also by wish and self-discipline, but he found himself unable to win most of the battles he was having with his new mate. And so, he had come to face with the young woman of the day before as she leant on her crutches, eyeing him with intense loathing.

  “Ah.... sorry to disturb, but...ah, thought you might like your bike back. Er..., thanks for the loan.”

  He stepped back feeling relieved. He felt the task had been well executed. Better than expected. The young woman was still glaring at him, but you get that on big jobs. Plus, she was quite feral. Her hair looked as though it hadn’t been washed for months, and she was grubby. He wasn’t too fussed about impressing her.

  “What?” he snarled, as Flagran gave him a sharp kick in the ankle. The Caretaker then grasped him by the upper arm and squeezed, forcing a yelp out of him. Sandro was ready to hit him. He felt like a small child taken back to a shop and made to return something he’d stolen unwittingly. He attempted to shake off the hand, but Flagran’s slight looking build belied a steel grip. Sandro also began to feel an unpleasant level of heat radiating from the hand holding him.

  Gritting his teeth, he gave it another shot. “I’m sorry I took your bike, alright? I just needed to borrow it for a bit. You were in no condition to ride it any way.” He tried to throw off the grip which was now burning his skin.

  “How about you invite us in, and make us a nice cup of tea,” suggested Flagran completely oblivious to the obvious, which was, there was no way in hell this young woman was going to let them into her house. If she had have done so, Sandro would have felt forced to give her a lecture on dangerous behaviours. Fortunately, she’d already had that lecture and looked, not only amazed and disgusted at the request, but also seemed to be anxious about something else and kept searching the road behind them. She was certainly very keen to get rid of them fast.

  Reaching out to grab hold of the bike from Sandro, she forced a polite, stay away from me, smile. “Thank you and goodbye.”

  Just like that. Dismissed. Now, Sandro was affronted. Here he was, embarrassing himself and putting up with Flagran’s attacks, and all she could do was give them the flick as quick as she could. She had no idea who she was talking to.

  She began to push the bike in through the front door, showing them her back. Flagran made as if to follow behind her, but Sandro said “Well. We’ll be off then” and started back along the veranda before the Caretaker could grab him again. Bridey gave them a quick relieved smile and shut the door in Flagran’s face. Thus she missed him sneaking down the side path to the gate, leaving his new friend on the veranda.

  Sandro was horrified. Now, what was he supposed to do? He couldn’t very well stand around here, and he was quite uncertain about leaving Flagran. He had no idea what the Caretaker could get up to. He decided to wait in the area between the side gate and the road.

  ***

  Bridey

  The absurd desire I’d had to invite those two strange men into my house was staggering. If my mother hadn’t been around, anything might have happened. This was not normal behaviour for me, but then normal was not the way to describe the past twenty hours. The fear of Mum returning and having to tell her the story of the bike, and the rubble in which it had been stuck, and all the other details which would make no sense to her, was the only important consideration. All the rest was, what? Something to deal with at a later date. I had invented the story of having fallen off my bike when the earthquake had shaken the ground. If Mum had asked where the bike was, it went home in the back of someone’s, anyone’s, van, and they were keeping it for me. It was important she didn’t see the curious crutches either. I stuffed them under my bed.

  We had a complicated relationship. I loved her, but Elaine had such strong and definite ideas about everything, from what to wear and eat, to what should be watched on television. She believed fiction was a total waste of time. Consequently, she had taught her only child that Father Christmas was an invention by stores wishing to sell stuff, way before anyone else in my world had wanted me to know. My father had sailed along with it. He never stood against her, and this had driven a wedge between us. His support could have made the difference. There’d been no tooth fairy, no fairy tales at all really. No Disneyland, just a world which had, many times, seemed dull and lifeless. Mum didn’t believe in any religions, firmly following the philosophers of her day such as Nietzsche, Marx and Freud. Sometimes, I had longed for a Fairy Godmother who would rescue me.

  Elaine would be aghast at the idea of Homarta taking up residence in the backyard. Come to think of it, so was I. She would be regarded in the light of a homeless person and shuffled off to a refuge somewhere, possibly with the help of the police. In agony, and failing to look out of the window at all to check on my guest, I awaited Mum’s return with the shopping hoping with every nerve in my body on high alert that Homarta would lie low. By the time Mum returned, I’d gathered my strength and my argument for the next battle.

  Homarta was attempting to scale the back fence when I, glancing out of the window, spied her efforts and nearly had a heart attack. Mum, must have seen my face go white and returned to insisting on hospital to have my foot checked. She was persuaded that tiredness was the main issue and that even a cup of tea wouldn’t help; which was the biggest lie. Instead, desperate to get her out of the kitchen where the view from the window was unpredictable, I managed to persuade her to help with changing the bed. As the sheets were the only ones I owned, Mum agreed to drop them off at the Laundromat. It was Saturday afternoon and she thought she might like to visit the Fitzroy Gardens while the washing was on. She was also intending to look through one of the better shoe shops, which just happened to be
in Clifton Hill.

  It was a blessing having excellent excuses not to accompany her. Elaine, who normally couldn’t tolerate daytime sleeps in anyone since she had insisted her daughter have them until she went to school, reluctantly gathered up the washing after spreading out a blanket on the bed for me and putting another within easy reach. I resolved that the rogue foot would be better on her return. No way was it possible to have her around, fussing and commanding. Fortunately, Mum and Dad had an engagement for the evening in Lilydale which was another blessing and was as good as the other side of the world.

  I waited for ten whole minutes before risking another trip outdoors. There was my unusual guest lying in a broken heap half on the piece of tin and half off. Apparently, her attempts to scale the back fence had been abortive. In fact, they’d resulted in severe damage. Homarta was unable to move, or talk. Her attempts to move her lips were so pathetic, I limped inside again for some water and a wet cloth. Despite the awkwardness of squatting, I wiped her face pouring the now less precious drops over her lips and clucking gently. Then I tipped up the glass and swallowed the remainder myself. Little more than a faint smile emanated from the invalid who seemed to have drifted off. It was understandable the opportunity to explore her presence at my place was missed. By the time it became possible to have a conversation with her, the need to do so had passed.

  The struggle to make my way back into to the house was driven by starvation. And fear Mum, who was still an hour or two away, would return at any moment.

  But she occasionally got it right. On the table was a long crusty bread roll, some salami and olives, tomatoes and a packet of chocolate biscuits which had been opened and about half were missing. She’d remembered butter. Unfortunately, there was no juice, and knowing I rarely used milk she hadn’t bought any of that either. Too many times she had found these cartons half empty and way out of date, in my refrigerator. This was one of her less than subtle ways of reprimanding me for waste. A pity, because I could have used some more fluid, any fluid. Those six litres Mum had bought were going to go nowhere.