~~~
I had suggested going to a bar near the cinema, but Sami had apparently insisted on Ricci seeing this ‘hot new place’ in St Kilda. It was impossible to find, down a side street and up two levels. Even at seven o’clock it was crowded and incredibly noisy, heavy pop music pouring from the speakers. The clientele looked hardly old enough to be in a bar. Sami was nowhere to be seen, so Ricci and I squeezed our way towards the bar and I attempted to get the bartender’s attention. A group of laughing and squealing girls young enough to still be in school blocked my view and I tried to push through him. One swayed as I brushed past her and spilled her pink drink down my white shirt. I let out an involuntary yell. The girls just laughed at their friend, who was too drunk to be apologetic. I backed out of there and looked around for Ricci. She’d disappeared. Feeling disorientated and slightly disgusted by the sticky wetness on my front, I navigated through the crowd looking for her. Finally I caught a glimpse of her dark hair on the balcony.
‘Way to disappear on me,’ I muttered into her ear as I reached her.
‘Oh, sorry, I saw Sami walking out here and thought I better tell him we’re here,’ she said.
Only then did I recognise the curly hair of Sami, standing in a semi circle of attractive girls who were seemingly captivated by whatever story he was telling. He stopped mid sentence as he caught sight of me.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ he exclaimed.
I opened my mouth for an angry retort, then realised he was staring at my shirt.
‘Some idiot spilled their drink on me,’ I said. Turning to Ricci, I added, ‘I’m going to go home and change, I can’t go to the movie like this.’
‘Don’t be silly mate!’ Sami said. ‘Take mine.’
Just like that, he unbuttoned the top couple of buttons on his own shirt and pulled it over his head. The girls squealed and swooned as his brown muscled chest was revealed. He handed the shirt to me triumphantly.
‘Thanks, but I’d rather get one of my own …’ I began.
‘Don’t be stupid, you’ll be late if you go all the way back home again, just put it on,’ Ricci said.
Defeated, I took the shirt and went in search of the bathrooms to change. The line was horrendously long, so I ducked into the stairwell we’d used to get into the bar, quickly took off my shirt and replaced it with Sami’s. It was a deep purple colour, not what I’d normally wear at all, and not very well fitted. Still, it was better than my own sodden shirt. I bundled it up as small as I could and returned to the balcony, carefully avoiding any drunken girls with sticky looking drinks.
It was as though I hadn’t left – Sami was still the centre of attention, except now I could hardly tell the difference between Ricci and the babies. She stared at his shirtless body, enraptured by his words. She didn’t even notice when I stood next to her.
‘It looks great mate!’ Sami said, noticing me. ‘Definitely your colour. Excuse me babies,’ he said to the throng of girls. ‘We’ve got some men’s business to discuss.’ He winked at me. I stared blankly back, wondering what on earth he wanted to say to me.
Taking my arm, he led me a few steps away from the group. Taking a packet of Benson and Hedges from his jeans pocket, he lit up a cigarette and offered me one. I refused.
‘So,’ he began, after taking a long puff. ‘How’s business doing?’
‘Fine,’ I replied, still slightly bewildered. ‘Great. Business is fine. Great.’
‘Good,’ Sami said. ‘And how about my little Ricci? You taking good care of her?’
I clenched my teeth at the phrase ‘my little Ricci’.
‘Well I don’t know Sami,’ I said, my voice cooler than before. ‘My version of taking care of a woman isn’t quite the same as yours.’
Sami glanced at me and smiled. ‘You mean my babies? You don’t like the way I treat them?’
‘I don’t approve of it, no,’ I said bluntly. ‘Not least because you call them your ‘babies’.’
‘Mate,’ he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Haven’t you heard? Children will inherit the earth.’
I shrugged his hand off. ‘But they’re not children. They’re grown women.’
Sami waved his hand. ‘They’re still girls,’ he said. Again he breathed in deeply on his cigarette. He blew the smoke into my face. I crinkled my nose.
‘And besides, they need me. I make them be something.’
‘You make them be your whores!’ I said. I instantly regretted it; Ricci would kill me if she heard this. But Sami just laughed and held out his hands.
‘What can I do? They want me. They need me. I give them what they want, I give them what they need, everyone is happy.’
I turned away scowling. ‘It’s exploitation,’ I mumbled.
Sami shrugged. ‘Ricci turned out okay, didn’t she?’
My head snapped around.
‘What?’
Sami feigned surprise. ‘She never told you? She was one of my first babies.’
I looked at Ricci. She was talking to the girls, laughing, waving her hands. She looked so much older, more sophisticated than they did.
‘You’re lying,’ I said.
‘Surely you know we grew up on the same block?’ Sami said. ‘I used to see her walking around, this little tomboy in hoodies and ripped jeans. I taught her how to doll herself up. I introduced her to my boss at the time in the modeling industry, got her an audition for a show they were doing.’
It wasn’t true. I didn’t want to believe it. But it all sounded so genuine. Ricci had never said how she’d become a model. Her parents were dead, I didn’t know any of her old friends. And she’d never mentioned how long she’d known Sami for, or how they had met.
Sami moved closer and said quietly, tauntingly, ‘I made her a real woman.’
I didn’t even mean to do it, but next thing I knew my fist was slamming into Sami’s nose. He toppled backwards into the railing and slid to the floor. Blood poured from his nose. I stood frozen in shock, aware only of a faint stinging on my knuckles.
‘Sami!’ Ricci was by his side in an instant. The girls quickly followed, completely obscuring him from my view. Ricci flew at me.
‘What the fuck did you do that for?’ she screamed. A crowd had gathered to watch; I could see people pointing in my peripherals. I was still breathing hard.
‘Were you one of his babies?’ I asked her. I had to fight to keep my voice steady.
Ricci stared at me. For a moment the only sound was the soothing chatter of the girls flocked around Sami.
‘Yes,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘Right.’
I tugged at the buttons on Sami’s shirt. My fingers were shaking too much to get them unbuttoned and some tore off and dropped to the floor.
‘Here you go mate,’ I said, throwing the shirt at him. ‘I don’t want your leftovers.’
Ricci stared at me, her features twisted in anger and confusion.
Turning around, I walked back into the bar, down the stairwell, and into the street. The warm night air played softly over my bare chest.
Ed: Yes folks, Emma’s done it again for us! She is now the first narratorAUSTRALIA contributor to receive two ‘Editor’s Pick’ awards. Call us biased (we’re not!), but we love the way she tells a tale. We hope you agree!
Sunday 8 July 2012 8 am
Batting Eyelashes
Ariette Singer
Palmerston, ACT
Aaaah! My days of batting eyelashes are no more …
My facial skin needs massive help to ‘glow’!
Too many wrinkles have firmly settled on my face,
And feel so comfortable – they refuse to go!
My legs disqualify for any beauty competition,
And I’m hardly able to move my, once delicious, hips ...
Flat feet and bunions hardly offer appetising vision –
Once, a most energetic beauty … now, my heart weeps!
And though my
lips, when sometimes, ‘nicely dressed’,
Still manage to attract some temporary, mild attention,
It’s really, not significant, and hardly worth a mention …
With hair, once thick and lustrous, now limp and grey,
And curves, that irritatingly, are curving the wrong way –
I realistically accept the end of my eyelash-batting days …
Unless … my ‘object of desire’ is optically indisposed,
Despite his age still wears glasses, tinted darkish rose …
I might, by batting, have a slim chance to attract his gaze –
Provided, he is blind to other eyelash batters in his space!
Sunday 8 July 2012 4 pm
Grandpa Dan
Ruth Withers
Uarbry, NSW
I found the old gentleman down by the river.
I watched as he gazed at a tree by the water.
He laughed and he spoke to a bird on a branch there
Of love for a lady and joy in his heart.
He turned and he saw me and laughed even harder.
He said, ‘How’d you do? Do you know my Martha?
Martha’s my sunshine, the bread in my larder.
My life and my breath is my dear, gentle Martha.
‘And I’ll bet you wonder, if you know my Martha,
What a creature like her sees in someone like me.
She, with her beauty and musical laughter,
In me, just an oaf with a busted up knee.
I wonder myself, when I think of the lads who
Vied for her love with great wealth and estate.
All the fittest, most handsome young roosters around came,
And all left downhearted. Not one would she take.
‘And me, just a workman with nothing to offer –
All breathless and tongue-tied whenever I saw her.
She’d come and she’d sit down beside me and chatter,
And her words and her laughter would fill me with wonder.’
Then he stopped and he listened – to nothing that I heard,
And the most boyish grin lit his weathered old face.
He said, ‘Nice to meet you, but I’ll have to leave you.
That’s my Martha calling me home to our place.’
He winked and he chuckled and tipped me his hat.
In the blink of an eye he strode lightly away,
And I gazed in awe at his straightness of back,
And I’d swear to you, he had no limp today.
I knew Martha well, Dan; as well as I know you.
Her life was a dance and her spirit was free.
She never wanted anything you didn’t freely give,
And you’d tell her, ‘You’re a wonderment to me.’
If she’s calling you, old friend, I know you have to go.
I never really thought you’d stay without her for too long.
I know you’ll both remember me the next time that we meet,
And then I’ll tell you, ‘Daniel, you were wrong.
I never had to wonder what our Martha saw in you.
It was written in your eyes, old friend, and we all saw it too.
All the love in that big heart, every breath you ever breathed,
Belonged to Martha only; that’s what she saw in you.’
Monday 9 July 2012
Mountain
Alan Lucas
Katoomba, NSW
I'm dropping down Boddington hill,
After four days of rain and mist
In the high mountain country
Clouds part and of a sudden there is sunlight,
Blue sky, the distant Plains of Emu,
Where Mitchell began his line of road to Bathurst.
Right on cue, Yvonne Kenny begins to sing
‘Song to the Moon’ from Rysalka,
View and music come together and
I know why I have returned to this place.
Woodford and I pass The Old Academy.
Where, as children we stole fruit
From twisted and ancient trees,
And were chased by two old women with sticks.
In Woodford my father built an asbestos weekender,
And every summer he would drop matches around the shack
To make the place safe against bush fire,
And every summer the fire would escape.
At the Weroona boys’ home down the road, the cry would go up,
‘Charlie Lucas has started another fire’.
And ten or twelve of the older boys would grab bags,
Old rakes, shovels, branches,
And run joyfully to the rescue.
(My mother already had the scones made,
And would serve them, with a huge pot of tea,
To the heroes,
But only after the fire was out.)
They were our daredevil days on bikes,
Racing down to Bull’s Camp to leap over humps,
And skid the wheels,
Showing off to the Eadie girls,
No safety hats in those days,
And we often lost skin
On Linden way, by Tollgate Bridge,
Not far from Caley’s repulse,
There sits a part of Mitchell’s Road,
That runs along a ridge.
Hand cut, hewn and channeled,
Pick-axe chipped and drained,
Where the ends of holes are seen,
Hand drilled for blasting,
All an easy march from old Bull’s Camp.
Some local boys have bike jumps there
Built from gravel that convicts might have cut,
And have carried an old park bench scavenged
From a council clean up,
To set before the gentle
Lower mountains view
In those days I filled myself with stories
Of convicts, bush rangers, and pioneers,
Thundering along the country tracks
On my two wheeled metal stallion.
I hope those boys
Using Mitchell’s bit of road
Are doing the same.
It’s imagination that contains and keeps alive
History and myth, and the young
Should always have a right to that.
Tuesday 10 July 2012 8 am
tyrannosaurus hex
Vague Hit
Maylands, SA
i have a friend
who knows a friend
who has a sister
who once owned a plant
she bought from a woman
who has a story to lend
the story she tells
is of a big lizard
no, really big
with giant teeth
and a book of spells
the beast would travel
around the country
eating people and goats
and cursing things
it didn’t like
or that plain meddled
this big green beast
also had fins
so it could swim and curse
as it wanted
and the fish were scared of him
you knew if he didn’t like a fish
because it’d rise to the top like yeast
like, one day, i swear to god
whichever god you choose
this dino was attacked by a shark
and turned it into a frog
no, really, a frog
all those teeth are useless
when all you eat are flies
as it did, as a frog
this prehistoric witch
was the bane of all existence
on land or just aquatic
until it felt like ice cream
and wished itself dessert
except it was uneducated
and pronounced it ‘desert’
and so was consumed by tons of sand
and suffocated
serves it right
for being a bitch
Tuesday 10 July 2012 8am
My Ward
Ronnie Compton
Hobart, TAS
I woke from a vivid and rather peculiar dream in which I sat in a black and white room of modest proportions – black and white only, because the sole light of the small space was from that of a colourless television positioned not so far away from where I myself sat, situated on a rug, central to the room. On the rug next to me I saw books scattered, all in differing languages like German, English, Greek, Spanish … alongside empty and half empty bottles of assorted liquor or cranberry juice. Hellenistic illustrations fixed themselves in linear purgatory on the face of the rug, irked by small round cigarette burns amongst its face, though no cigarettes could be found anywhere in the room. I justify giving the time of day to these lowly descriptions with no other reason but that my sub-conscious other did the very same to me, and it would certainly be an anecdote of vexation had I not been brought up as a character of truth and accuracy, for who knows what meanings these small illustrations have on the sagacious mind, if such a mind was to ponder on such a tale. Even though I do not deem them integral, I include all minor details for the very reason that a mind I described may stray onto this passage. Albeit, no other object, no other piece of furniture aside from the ones I previously described, held even the slightest touch of aesthetic quality.
The focus of my dream was on the images I watched on the television. Although the volume was not high; although my hearing is one of my worst, if not the worst, of all of my five senses, I heard all of the dialogue, all of the monologue, all of the backing music, with perfect clarity. And although the screen stayed black and white for the whole spectacle, every scene and movement was sighted with ease. In saying this, all of that which I was subjected to was a solitary piece of what I can only describe as bile, and of this bile, describe I will.
On the black and white screen I saw surreal flashing images of my closest friends, of acquaintances, of women I had previously loved, of women I presently loved, some favoured family members, some folk I knew not of their name or company but had seen on the streets or other places numerous times and had taken a liking to, all in spaces of what could not precisely be described as a state of bliss; but in a wondrous, untouchable, transcendental universe, where all of my most trusted links to the external world sat as enigmatic hosts to a far off place. In some scenes they were singing and dancing, celebrating love and money (in the context of wealth), while in others I would witness a close friend and a secret love of mine sharing intimacy, the likes of which I was defencelessly naive to.
Some scenes would see a group of them sitting at a large table in an unknown cafe or restaurant, all collectively residing in contentment and simple life, yet a life I could not understand, no matter how simple it was. They would drink coffee and wine, they would laugh, they would console, they would empathise. I could never admit to seeing the only characters of my life I truly loved in any light but that of jealousy and rejection. I was never once considered by them to be existing, nor was I intelligent enough to follow their seemingly banal and simple conversations, or artistic enough to appreciate allegories in their dramas or songs. I did not have the ability to become lucid enough to enquire whether I were the changed one, or if they had simultaneously transcended, leaving me to rust.
It was, as previously mentioned, a blur of images and voices in typical dream confusion, and only one part of the drama stuck with me with memorable clarity, the rest being a delusional mosaic of desertion and self-loathing. The part that escaped this mad and depressing insidiousness – however momentarily – with any sense of coherence, was a speech by a notably close friend named Duke. He sat in a house I had once lived in and which he had visited many time, though in the world he sat the house was lifeless and in ruins. He was on a chair in the living room, but the roof had been torn off and the walls hardly stood; the remnants of the structure looked burned, as if it had escaped a fire in which the rest had disintegrated. A clear night and a mostly full moon was the backdrop as Duke spoke tiredly.
DUKE: Secret worlds are hardly shared, the only sharing and simultaneousness coming from the eyes seeing them, and this is only because they are naturally paired. Both of them see previously unknown light and share it with no one but the other. But WHY? Epiphanies can wait when our fuse is this long. Why waste our chance … our one and only chance at long lasting mediocrity? Save the explosion when it’s expected, for when it’s socially acceptable, then die with dignity, knowing a previous expedition of the surreal mediocrity of western homes and life overshadowed your own. Don’t dance along to flashing arrows and please tastes of savage martyrs, don’t believe the callings of the bastards who say that you cannot study a lion from inside its mouth and that the further away you live away from life the better you can know it … they’re spoiling you. They’re being rhetorical and laughing when you believe it.
He stood up and walked away as the television and the room turned to static. I floated in the mesh of dreaming and waking, saying my goodbyes nostalgically to the room. It seemed that even in solitary, my most adored of places, that my soul was being infiltrated. I floated away from the shambles, to the fading door of the static room, finally drifting to waking life, to the calls of laughter and traffic from outside …
Wednesday 11 July 2012
Nicole
Chloe Loughran
Brunswick, Victoria
I shivered in the night
Woke my eyes
To find your pillow dry
I search a bare house
Bare foot
Everything bare
You weren’t anywhere
I sit still in my mind
Try to remember you
And where you’ve been
Yet you’re nowhere to be seen
I went out for a second
Went wandering round town
I got up and strolled on out
Nowhere to be found
I’ve come back my dear
Only to find your absence here
And your tears gone dry
On the window sill you sat by
I try to hold your clothes
With a stale feel of insecurity in the air
I break down in despair
I’m alone
Completely
You won’t be coming home tonight.
Thursday 12 July 2012
A Poem Written On A Window
Peter Goodwin
Warilla, NSW
Look out the window, if you must,
but there is nothing beyond for you,
the morning light tangled
in the vines and the lattice work,
the child playing in the fountain
out of sight of her mother,
three birds grooming themselves
on the wooden fence.
Turn your gaze away from outside now,
do not dwell on a place where nothing
is there for you.
Go and stand as close as you please,
touch the words with your lips and hands,
you wrote them, in the dark,
out of your mind.
/>
The scribbled lines on the glass
in your handwriting stand as a witness
against your freedom.
Friday 13 July 2012
Best Friend
Noel Downs
Gungal, NSW
Benny and I had been mates since first grade, we were almost inseparable. If there was mischief afoot we’d be in it. Pranks mostly, it was if we knew what each other was thinking, but most likely we just thought alike. At school we’d get the same answers so often the teachers thought we were cheating off each other. They tried putting us on opposite sides of the room to no avail. Wasn’t until they moved Benny to a different class and we still did it, that they realised we wasn’t cheating. We liked the same foods, the same drinks and snacks, the same movies and music. We fished, we camped, we hunted, we lived. We were mates. Problem was we were too much alike, we had the same tastes in everything. For 16 years it was like we were twins, but not.
The year Benny turned twenty one, his parents gave him a trip to Europe for his birthday. Initially I was going with him, but my dad had hurt himself making hay so I couldn’t go. He’d been on holidays before without me. So neither of us gave it much thought as we said our farewells and joked about the diseases he’d catch. Didn’t he ever catch something! Did I tell you we liked the same things? Now with mates that usually isn’t a problem, even when you both want the same thing, you just share. But some things you can’t share.
While he was away Benny got engaged to a French girl. Though Monique was not so much of a girl, as a goddess. Boy I tried hard not to like her, really hard not to let either of them know. We were mates, things like that can ruin a good friendship, but the writing was on the wall from the day he fell in love. Benny knew something was wrong, but he was in love. Love made him stupid, hell, it made me stupid. He tried to get me to talk about it, tried to cheer me up by taking us fishing, and camping, Monique came too, though she refused to go hunting, didn’t like the sound of the gun.
We had been stalking a roe buck, and as he was about to take the shot he stood up turned his back on the disappearing buck to face me and for the first time since we’d met, he yelled with anger directed at me. We’d never had harsh words before, and it shocked me. I guess that was his aim to catch me off guard and get some answers. Not sure the answer he got was the one he was prepared for. How do you tell your best friend you want their woman? Anyway, it was in that moment when the look in his eyes told me our friendship was ended, that I thought fuck it, and I shot him.
I buried him in that little copse. Loaded our gear into the car and when it was dark crashed it into to the river. The police searched for days but they never found his body. I cried for a week; kept saying to anyone who was around, that it was my fault, that I’d killed my best friend. No-one would listen, called it an accident, they tried to comfort me, even Monique did. She said we needed to look after each other ’cause we’d both lost. Now that did cheer me up.
We’re getting married tomorrow.
Saturday 14 and Sunday 15 July 2012
The Missus
Andrea Payne
Salisbury North, ACT
She sat in the shade of the verandah, in the old cane chair that after so many years of use was moulded to the shape of her body. A single cup sat on the table between the two chairs – her chair, and the other one that sat empty nowadays. She was tired; she’d been out mending fences earlier. It was tough, trying to keep it all together.
She looked out across the brown landscape. She knew every foot of that land; it had been her home for forty years. But it wasn’t usually so brown. Almost no sign of green existed; just the foliage of the trees that lined the dry riverbed. The whole station was a dust bowl – the dams were dry, the river gone underground, or gone altogether.
A distant dust trail caught her attention, and her eyes narrowed as she squinted into the distance, trying to make out the vehicle that was approaching the homestead. She didn’t get too many visitors these days – not since Bob had been gone. His mates, the men from the surrounding stations, used to drop by sometimes, but their wives didn’t often get the chance to visit.
The sound of the approaching vehicle reached her ears, and the old blue heeler that had been asleep next to her chair sat up, its ears perked. The dog got to its feet and rushed down the verandah steps into the yard, barking. He was a good dog, old Blue, and she’d had him since he was a pup, but like the woman, he was aging. He was still good protection, though, and he could still round the cattle up and move them wherever she wanted him to.
The woman recognised the car before the dog did, and called to him. ‘Blue! Get here! It’s only Bill.’
Bill was her neighbour from the next station; he slowed as he drove into the homestead yard and pulled up in the shade of the big tree. A callistemon it was – callistemon salignus. Willow bottlebrush – that was its common name. She remembered that. It was a beautiful tree, and well named. Its long curved boughs covered with bright green foliage reached down towards the ground, and in spring it was covered with white bottlebrush-like flowers.
She loved the tree; she’d planted it shortly after she came here. She’d always wanted to get a red one too. Callistemon salignus rufus. But somehow, it never happened. The white one was a good seven metres tall now, and when she first planted it she had dreamed and planned afternoons in the shade, reading on a white-painted chaise longue, or sitting on the lawn, playing with the children. The lawn that was never planted. The children that never came. And the time for sitting and reading – well, that never came either.
‘G’day, Missus.’ The man that was approaching the verandah was in his sixties, lined face and faded blue eyes, and a little stooped. He was dressed as the woman was, in worn moleskins, faded shirt and scuffed boots. He took off his dusty, sweat-stained old Akubra and ducked his head. Her attention returned to the present, and she nodded a welcome.
‘Oh Bill. G’day, how are you? Sit down. Cuppa?’
‘That’d be good, thanks.’ Bill settled himself into the empty chair as the woman rose and went off into the cool darkness of the house, the screen door banging behind her.
She was back in an instant, and the screen door banged again as she put a cup of milky tea down on the table next to Bill.
‘There you go.’ She sank down into her chair again.
‘Thanks, Missus. I’m fair dry!’
They sat in companionable silence for some time, sipping their tea and gazing out at the landscape. In that part of the outback, you don’t see your neighbours a lot, but that doesn’t mean that you’re strangers.
‘Just been into town; thought I’d drop in and see how you were. The wife sends her best.’
‘Oh, right-oh. How’s Eileen doing, Bill?’
‘Same as ever, same as ever. Oh, we got a letter from young Jess. She’s expecting again.’
‘That right, Bill? This’ll be her third, won’t it? You and Eileen’ll be right over the novelty of being grandparents by now, eh?’
‘Guess so. Yes, this’ll be Jess’ third, and of course there’s Gary’s two as well. As for Susie – well who knows when she’ll settle down!’
‘Must be a great comfort for Eileen, having Gary and the family at the station with you. And Gary, well, he’ll be a big help around the place, eh Bill?’
Bill nodded. ‘She loves having the kids there all the time, and she and Gary’s Kate get on so well together. She doesn’t miss Jess quite as much, with Kate there to keep her company. And of course, young Susie is still off in Sydney living the high life. Dunno what she sees in the place, myself, but she’s happy. The wife, she wishes Susie would settle down though.’
Then, after a pause, Bill spoke again. ‘Pity you and Bob never had a family.’
‘Yeah.’ She looked over towards the dry riverbed, and as they lapsed back into silence, just for a minute she thought of how it could have been, of how it would have been, of
how it should have been.
‘Been hot.’
‘Sure has, Bill. This summer’s been a scorcher.’
‘We get that. That’s the way it is.’
‘You know, the dam’s been dry so long I can’t remember how it looked when it was full. Thank God for the bores; don’t know what we’d do with the stock without ’em.’
‘Bad weather they’ve had, over east,’ he said.
‘Yeah. Worst drought in history, and now they’re flooded. That car that went into the river near Sydney – bad business that was. Drowned that young couple and all three of their kids.’
‘Real bad luck, that. But we could do with some of the rain here.’
‘That’s for sure.’ She looked at the dusty yard, the shrivelled vegetable patch, and then across at the dry, empty paddocks.
‘Dunno what’ll happen if we don’t get some soon.’
‘Can’t afford to truck in feed forever,’ said Bill.
‘If I lose many more head, won’t have to,’ she replied.
‘Bad as that, is it, Missus?’
‘No, not really. I’m no worse nor better off than the rest of us round here. Numbers are down to about half, and they’re thin, but there’s still hope. After all, remember what it was like back in ’64?’
‘Oh yes. Thought we were done for, then. At least we haven’t had a lot of bushfires this time.’
‘Remember young Geoff Roberts? He was down in Victoria, got caught in the Ash Wednesday fires.’
‘I remember. Poor lad.’
‘That was a bad time, that was. We got over it, though.’
‘Yes. We always do.’
‘I’ve had some laughs sitting here,’ said Bill. ‘The wife and I haven’t been over for a proper visit lately. Oh, we had some good times back a ways, didn’t we? After tea was over, sitting out here with Bob having a sip of port while you girls had a laugh in the kitchen.’
‘Yes, you two – solving all the problems of the universe, you were,’ she said. ‘Eileen and I, we did have some laughs.’
‘Always a good cook, you were, Missus.’
She thought about the port bottle. It was sitting on the sideboard in the dining room. Hadn’t been uncorked since Bob died. He’d kept it to share with his mates while the women cleaned up after the meals.
‘Tell Eileen I’ll phone her Sunday,’ she said.
‘She’ll like that,’ Bill replied. ‘She always wished you could talk more often than you do, but of course Bob was one to watch the money, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, he was.’ He only had the phone put on at the station in case of emergencies; didn’t like her making phone calls just to talk. Bob liked to keep a tight rein on the spending money; fair enough, since he was the one that did all the hard work – or so he said often enough.
‘Good bloke, old Bob,’ said Bill. ‘A real good mate. I miss him.’
‘Never a day I don’t think of him, Bill. Never a day.’
‘You know, I never thought Bob would be the one to go first,’ said Bill. ‘And to go like that.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘He’d never been sick a day in his life. One minute he’s fine, the next he was just gone. Sitting in his chair after dinner, just dropped off to sleep and gone.’
‘We been worried, me and the wife. You doing alright? It’s tough, on your own.’
‘Oh Bill, I’ll be right. And of course I still have young Matt. He’s off over in Broken Hill but he’ll be back day after tomorrow. He’s a smart kid, and a hard worker too. Bob never tolerated bludgers, as you know, and Matt’s been a great help since Bob’s been gone. And of course – oh yes! Remember Mark? That nephew of ours – spent quite a few holidays here over the years.’
‘Oh yeah, I remember him. Bob’s sister’s kid, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is. Well, he and his wife – girlfriend – oh I don’t quite know what to call her. Tracy her name is. Anyway, they’re coming up to stay. Mark was always close to Bob; hero-worshipped his uncle. And they’ve arranged to come up; Mark’ll help around the place and Tracy – she’s a nice kid – well it’ll be good to have a bit of company.’
‘Well, glad to hear that, Missus. Me and the wife, we wondered how you’d do here on your own. Glad you’ve got family coming up.’
‘Yeah, that Mark – he thought his Uncle Bob was the Man from Snowy River or something …’
‘Remember when Bob first got that black stallion? Thought he was bloody Clancy or something, didn’t he!’ Bill laughed. ‘Damn good horseman, Bob was.’
She thought of the black stallion, and nodded slowly, her rough, work-hardened fingers rubbing her red, swollen knuckles.
‘Loved that horse, Bob did,’ she replied.
She remembered the countless hours she’d sat up late into the night, working on the fine embroidery she used to do so well, as she listened to Bob’s snores. Still, he was a working man. He needed his sleep.
Her eyes couldn’t see well enough to do it any more, but that didn’t matter because her fingers were no longer capable of making the neat, tiny stitches. She’d sent it all down to her sister Lucy in Adelaide. Lucy had sent her back the money, and finally she had enough saved up for the washing machine. A Pope wringer model. She’d hidden the picture she cut out of the old magazine in the kitchen drawer, and she used to take it out and look at it at night, after Bob went to bed. Her body would be crying out for sleep, her muscles aching, but one look at the picture of that washing machine gave her the strength to sit and do a couple of hours of embroidery work.
Bob had taken the money with him when he went down to the Adelaide Show, back in ’56. He took the bull down – he was so proud of that bull. Best he’d ever bred. She’d entered a tablecloth she had embroidered; it won first prize. Bob’s bull had won third. He’d sold the bull and bought the stallion; brought her back a concrete double laundry tub and a wringer you mounted on the edge of the tub with a handle you cranked to wring the water out of the clothes. It wasn’t the Pope, but it was a step up from the old drum she used for rinsing. She went on using the old copper and heaving the laundry around with the laundry stick; she’d got used to doing that years before and it didn’t seem so hard any more.
The rest of her money – well, Bob had used that for the new saddle he’d bought for the stallion. Couldn’t ride a beautiful horse like that with the old saddle. He knew she wouldn’t mind. He’d lost her first prize certificate, and of course the prize money was gone along with her savings, but that didn’t matter anyway. The stallion had caught its foot in a rabbit hole about six months later. Broke its leg and Bob had to shoot it. Good thing he wasn’t hurt.
‘Never thought he’d settle down, old Bob,’ Bill said. When we were kids, he was always on about how he was going to be famous one day. Wasn’t going to stay here on the land. He was going to Adelaide to play footy for Sturt. He was going to play cricket for Australia. He was going to go to America and beat the Yanks on the rodeo circuit. Silly bugger, he always had some plan or other.’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘That sounds like Bob.’
‘I’ve got this photo of us, taken down in Gawler one year when we went down to stay with Bob’s Uncle Murray. Bert Jackson was with us. You didn’t know Bert, did you? Killed in France he was, in – oh, must have been about ’42. Anyway, the three of us were having a great game of bushrangers with the Yardea mail coach. Course, Bob used to say if he was born back in those days he would’ve gone off and been a bushranger. Captain Blackheart, he used to call himself. Just kidding, of course. Good bloke, old Bob.
‘He always thought his brother Les would take over the station here from his Dad. Then when Les was killed – well, that was in North Africa in ’41. Bob came back here and when his dad got sick he just took over the running of the place. Ran it for his Mum till she was gone, and just stayed on. Course, that was before he was married. Never thought he’d get married, old Bob, but he turned out to be a good bloke.’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. �
�Good bloke, Bob was. Looked after his Mum – he was good to her alright.’
She thought of how he’d howled with laughter when they’d only been married a week and she’d been bringing in the firewood when a huntsman spider had run up her arm. Of course, she always brought the wood in. Chopped the firewood, brought it in. Bob was a busy bloke.
Anyway, this huntsman ran up her arm and she screamed and dropped all the wood. Broke her toe, and Bob just sat there laughing.
‘It’s just a huntsman. They’re everywhere out here. Won’t hurt you.’
She was jumping around trying to find where it had gone; tore off her coat and threw it out onto the verandah. She hobbled off into the bathroom and locked the door; sat on the floor and cried. She stayed there till Bob banged on the door and told her to stop being stupid and get into the kitchen. Get on with cooking tea. He was hungry and he’d been out working all day.
She’d got used to the creepy crawlies – well, most of them, anyway. Bugs, beetles and mossies weren’t a problem. She didn’t like the snakes, but she wasn’t scared. She’d lost count of the number of brown snakes she’d killed over the years. But the spiders were still her worst fear. Not the redbacks, really – although they were poisonous, they mostly just sat in their webs and they were fairly small as spiders go. Of course if she found one she always killed it, because they did have a nasty bite, but they didn’t scare her.
She still couldn’t cope with the huntsmen though. Although she never admitted it, she was scared stiff of them. Great big hairy things, always lurking around on the walls. Yes, they ate flies, but as far as she was concerned, they could eat flies outside. She didn’t kill them, but that was only because she was too scared of them. She made young Matt, the lad who helped around the station, put them into a can and take them down to the back paddock. She swore him to secrecy, because she didn’t want Bob laughing at her, but there just wasn’t room enough for her and a huntsman inside the house, and she wasn’t leaving!
‘Real down to earth, Bob. No airs and graces about him. Just an ordinary bloke – real dinky di.’
‘That was Bob, alright,’ she agreed. Bob liked things plain and simple.
She’d always wondered what some of the recipes she saw in the Woman’s Weekly magazines that Eileen used to send over would taste like, but Bob liked his meals plain and simple. No herbs and spices in Bob’s house. Roast beef with spuds, carrots and gravy for Sunday lunch. And veg – usually peas and beans. Meat pie on Mondays, made from the roast. Grilled chops on Tuesdays. Stew Wednesdays and Saturdays, and lamb Thursdays. Bob liked things orderly; everything planned. ‘You know where you are that way,’ he used to say. Of course the house was orderly too – everything right where his mother and father had it. She tried rearranging the furniture once, but Bob told her to put it all back where it belonged. It was his house; she understood that.
On Fridays they had meat pie again, made from the leftover lamb. None of that fish stuff in Bob’s house; he didn’t hold with religion interfering with what a man ate. Working men need a good nourishing meal put it front of them every night of the week. Chops, sausages, eggs and bacon for breakfast and lunch. He sure could put the food away, Bob could.
Since Bob died, she never thought about making any of the recipes from the Woman’s Weekly. Somehow it didn’t seem so important any more. She was too busy with the property, anyhow. When she came in at night, she didn’t even bother to light the fire half the time. She’d just make herself a cup of tea and a couple of sandwiches – she still made the Sunday roast, but the meat lasted her and Matt all week.
The carrots, spuds, peas and beans came from her kitchen garden. When she first came to the station, she’d planted some marigolds, pansies and violets and a couple of rose bushes. Bob pulled them all out. ‘No time around here for that nonsense,’ he said to her. ‘We don’t waste water on flowers.’ Of course, the roses and the pansies wouldn’t have survived the drought anyway.
‘Bob always was a simple bloke. Never went for any of the fancy stuff.’
She thought for a minute about the faded, shapeless clothes, grey from countless washes and soft from years of use, carefully folded and put neatly into the chest of drawers in her bedroom. Underwear, petticoats, nighties – all the same shade of grey. And her house dresses. Shapeless, colourless sacks all of them, but she never wore dresses any more. She was always outside working, so she dressed in her moleskins, old shirts and scuffed boots. She had no clothing in bright colours, no chiffon or lace, but as Bob said, what would she want with that stuff. She never went anywhere anyway.
Then her mouth lifted, just a fraction, at the corner, as she pictured the pale blue satin nightdress that was folded into a tiny bundle and tucked right at the bottom of her old trunk, under her wedding dress, the white baby blanket she had knitted when she was fourteen, and the tiny embroidered dresses and knitted bootees she had made back in ’53. Bob thought she had thrown it all out, but she hadn’t.
She bought the nightdress the year she had to go down to Adelaide to the hospital. She went by herself; Bob had too much to do on the station, and as he said, there wasn’t anything he could do anyway. It wasn’t like she was really ill – just some woman problem after all, wasn’t it. Somehow, she couldn’t face all those strangers looking at her as she sat up in bed in the ward, wearing her old faded cotton nightie.
She’d said to Bob that she might get a new nightie for the trip. Waste of money, he called it. Who cared what she looked like – it didn’t matter what strangers thought. She’d said she agreed with him, but she’d bought it anyhow. It was only cheap; she got it at Myers in Rundle Street, in the Bargain Basement. She’d never worn it since; Bob didn’t know she’d bought it but she couldn’t bear to throw it out, just folded it up and tucked it away along with the dreams of the children that she would never hold.
She looked across to the mountain range on the horizon, and then squinted, looking closer.
‘Looks like clouds over the hills.’
‘It does at that, Missus. They’re getting enough rain down south – think it ought to be our turn soon.’
‘They’re dark looking. Reckon we might get a drop or two out of them,’ she agreed.
‘Could at that,’ he said.
‘They forecast rain. Course, they’re wrong more than they’re right, but that does look like we might be lucky.’
If it rained, she thought she would go out into the yard and dance naked between the raindrops. She would light the fire in the sitting room and sit on the rug, wrapped in a blanket, and brush her hair until it dried. She would cook a cheese omelette from the old recipe she’d cut out of the Woman’s Weekly, and then eat it sitting cross-legged in front of the fire. She would have a glass of Bob’s port, or maybe even two. And she would get out the pale blue nightie and put it on before she went to bed.
‘Well, I’d better be going.’ Bill rose and stood for a minute, looking down at the woman.
‘Good to see you, Bill. Tell Eileen I’ll give her a ring.’
‘See you then, Missus. Look after yourself.’
She looked at him for a minute. ‘Sarah. My name is Sarah.’
Monday 16 July 2012
It's Only A Myth
Bob Edgar
Wentworth Falls, NSW
I don’t regret exploding a myth, one particular myth I had longed to see explode into a thousand tiny little pieces.
Sitting quite still, I closed my eyes lightly to relive the recent past.
I see myself as I walk the hallowed halls of St.Camberwell, a student in this bastion of learning.
At least once a day in my mind I explode this myth that annoys me so. I would be admonished and ostracised if I were to carry out my imagined threat of destruction of this unworthy myth. Yet I must, for I am justified.
I was renowned as a young child for having a remarkable speaking voice, I need only to have made some inane comment and people would say, ‘My, hasn’t he the most rema
rkable speaking voice.’
My early school years were a cakewalk, for not only was I an exceptionally intelligent child, I also had this remarkable speaking voice.
The expectation was that I would be a leader in the political party of my choosing, maybe even the first person in history to lead both major parties simultaneously. However I would be content to be ‘Speaker of the House’. Already the most sought after member for elite debating teams, not only for my incredible intelligence and sharp wit, but also for my remarkable speaking voice.
My Science teacher, Miss Stone was in my view reckless at the best of times, so when she chose me to conduct her latest experiment I was decidedly uneasy.
‘Just clench your teeth on the end of this match and I will demonstrate the myth of the felonious phosphorus,’ she had said with her usual knowall smugness, as she lit the match.
Six months on from that fateful day I did explode the myth, and now I sit in this pungent room devoid of warmth. Detective Carter enters and asks me am I aware of the heinous crime I had committed.
‘Yeth thir I am, my Thience teacher Myth Thtone had it coming.’
Tuesday 17 July 2012
Due to a clerical error, there were no items published on Tuesday 17 July 2012.
The item scheduled for this date was Ronnie Compton’s My Ward, which we published on 10 July by accident (sorry, Ronnie!). It is included in this book at 10 July, accordingly.
Wednesday 18 July 2012
Railway Tracks
Jean Bundesen
Woodford, NSW
Across the bridge from the inner city railway station,
A multitude of tracks curve to the city skyline.
Sky scrapers shrouded in blue mist,
The ‘Coat Hanger’ an arched monument
to those who risked their lives building it.
Trains, giant centipedes scurry, rattle
Carry commuters to and fro.
A homeless man, skunk scent and pack,
Dreadlocks, scruffy clothes, searches
The innards of a rubbish bin
Outside the railway station.
Suddenly smiling
He’s found a meat pie
And a ticket for any train or ferry.
Rushes for a train, glances around
Slides his wallet into his back pocket, feeling safe,
Falls asleep – he won’t be robbed again.
Railway tracks don’t always lead to home or happiness.
Thursday 19 July 2012
The White House
JAC
Kilsyth, VIC
The dream was always the same. Blue and green battling for dominance, trying desperately to take control of my world. I knew if one of them ever won, the dream would be different. But it never happened. Everything I saw was terrifying. The grass on the ground, the sky above, caused an overwhelming fear that gripped my very soul. The only hope was the big, white house in the distance. I had to get there because I knew sanity was waiting. But no matter how long or fast I ran, it always stayed just out of reach. A haunting reminder of a happier time. If it could be reached, the dream could stop. But it always stayed just out of reach.
They called it deep depression. I called it hell.
Every day a nurse came to take care of me. But the dream never left. Even when the doctors were telling me how to help myself, the dream was there. The dream was the only thing I saw. I wanted to wake up so much, wanted my life to begin again. But the nurses only sighed and shook their heads. ‘Poor thing,’ they whispered, ‘trapped inside herself.’
‘BUT I CAN HEAR YOU!’ I screamed. ‘I CAN HEAR EVERYTHING YOU SAY!’ They never heard me. ‘OH, WHY DON’T YOU ANSWER ME?’
They called it a shame. I called it cruel.
Thursdays, I was taken into a little room and strapped down to a cold, hard table. They talked to each other the whole time. But never to me. Their hands constantly moved until I looked like a school science project. Then the humming would start, louder and louder, until I could hear nothing else. And then pain. It felt like hours before it was finally over.
They called it therapy. I called it agony.
One day a new doctor came to see me. He was cheerful and seemed to truly care. I could hear it in his voice. The longer I listened to him, the harder it was for the dream to keep hold. Joy swept over me as I struggled to reach out to him, to tell him it was working. I could even see him, sitting on a chair, waiting. I ran, wanting desperately to reach him. He got closer, clearer. I could see the colour of his hair, chestnut. His eyes, green as grass. Then he began to fade. He was leaving the room, telling the nurses that I showed signs of recognition. His voice became softer, further away. And the dream got stronger. I screamed, long and mournful. ‘PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME.’ But no one came, no one heard. Alone again I turned away and started running toward that house. Maybe this time I would make it. Maybe this time would be different.
They called it a breakthrough. I called it hope.
Friday 20 July 2012
A Mid-Winter Sun Rise
John Ross
Blackheath, NSW
The alarm was set. The two cameras and plenty of film at hand. I had already checked the lenses and filters but did so again. Okay, now under the doona and lights out.
I had managed to capture many sunrises, but always in summer, or over the ocean. This was to be my first mid-winter one over land.
At five-thirty AM it was cold and dark. I dressed warmly and moved my gear out onto the deck overlooking the valley, turned off the lights and waited. Outside the first thing I noticed was the cold. They say it is always coldest just before dawn and even though dawn was still some way off it was already well below zero outside. It was like thousands of tiny, icy needles pricking my skin. It was a very physical thing and with a little shiver I quickly wrapped my scarf over my mouth and nose.
As my eyes adjusted a magic scene unfolded before me. The sky was clear and billions of brilliant stars jostled for position and ranking as to brightness. From horizon to horizon the Milky Way swept its broad path of light. Never before had I seen so many stars. They reached down to touch the horizon in every direction. Never before had I witnessed such a display of brilliance. The land beneath was bathed in white light as the frost on the grass and the ice on the river reflected that brilliance. The trees were sentinels of sparkling light as they marched up the slopes of the mountains. I even imagined in the complete silence that prevailed that I could hear the frost crackling as it formed. No wind moved the trees, no animal moved; the earth just stool still before such beauty.
Ever so slowly the north-eastern sky started to lighten. The light battled with the stars who slowly gave way. Below, the earth darkened as its source of light receded. A new day was coming. It would still be some time before the warmth of the sun came and an even deeper chill seemed to spread over the land. I waited.
The first real rays touched the back of the trees on the mountain to the east and outlined them in a shimmering cape of gold that spread along the ridge, covering rocky outcrops and trees alike. Suddenly, long, wispy, fast moving clouds raced across the sky away from the coming sun, eager in their attempt to reach the next horizon before it.
The large mountain to the west was the next to receive the sun. A band of gold appeared on its summit like a sudden golden snowfall.
The valley was beginning to come to life. In the dim light there I could see ghostly spirals of mist rising from the river. They twirled and twisted as they rose. A low mist was enveloping the ground. The valley looked like a vast lake of wispy, white water.
A thin sliver of golden light broke above the mountain; so bright that I had to look away. With a deceptive quickness the sun rose. Below shadows leapt across the grass. The mist gave way revealing a carpet of crushed diamonds that was far richer than any jewel that
man had ever made. It was so beautiful I found that I was holding my breath. Steam rose from the leaves of the trees and as the frost on them melted large drops of shining water fell away.
The mountain to the west was now bathed in brilliant sunlight that accentuated the beautiful rich colours of our Australian landscape. Gold, red and green of all hues competed in a scene that was so beautiful in that morning light.
The sun reached me and I could feel its life giving warmth. My spirit reacted to the light and a new energy flowed through me.
Below in the valley life began to stir. First a rabbit appeared at the entrance to its burrow, then a group of kangaroos bounded down to the still steaming river. A large group of black cockatoos, with their majestic slow wing beats flew up into a tall pine tree. A loud screech from a white cockatoo doing its morning aerobatics brought me back to earth.
I looked down. My camera gear lay untouched beside my chair. There would be no physical record of that magical dawn. There was really no need as it would stay in my memory forever.
Saturday 21 July 2012 every 20 minutes from 8 am
Reactions 1
Mark Govier
Warradale, SA
1.
Across the bridge I ran, like a man/
Possessed/ Not by freedom, but by
A bleak destiny/ To the other side
2.
The door to the cell was left ajar/
I had no choice/ I could not remain/
I became the stranger I always was
3.
Who imprisoned me, I know not/
For reasons I know not/ My disease grew
Until it was all there was
6.
The wind whistles through my belfry/
In the clarity of blindness I grasp a straw
Then fly away, regardless
8.
Your constitution? In the end/
Things will be much the same
Toilet paper, that serves a purpose
16.
You wouldn’t let me in/
My face didn’t fit/ Do I get a second chance
If I rip it to shreds?
17.
If I keep grinding my teeth/
Even the false ones will wear out
Then I eat soup for the remainder
20.
The vigilantes are after me/
I stepped on someone’s toe
People will do anything, if they are angry
21.
Did you dig your own grave/
Deep enough? I don’t worry
Because the State’s going to bury me
22.
I used to smoke, then I realised
I’d never taken a breath/ Old habits die hard
Especially the bad ones
23.
You want me to hurt you?
It’ll cost, but not too much
What’s a bit of hope between friends?
24.
My heart is like a red, red rose/
Infested with countless aphids
You can join in, I love company
26.
Death is such a dreadful thing/
But with life being so long, and getting longer
What am I to do? Doctor?
30.
Go in peace, you said, so I did/
And when I came back, you’d disappeared
Just like we agreed
34.
What have I done now? I’m terrified/
Of going off the rails/ I keep forgetting
I left them, long ago
37.
In the end, we’re all memories/
People will do almost anything they’re told
But do you remember, what you did?
38.
My heart is like a marble chamber pot/
Gold and silver inlay, nothing too fancy
It helps to take the taste away
41.
Politicians! If someone eliminated/
The lot, I wouldn’t worry/ There’s thousands
More where they came from
45.
You said you’d only go out with me/
If I converted/ Consider it done!
What's one illusion over another?
48.
Who broke them in? Can anyone tell?
You don’t get that far, without bending over
Or am I missing something?
50.
I’m afraid of everything, that’s why/
They put me here/ Is there any point in
Crying over the spilt blood?
51.
You’re happy to go home at night?
I wouldn’t talk to a dog like that
But he seems to like it
53.
What does he see in that sheep?
How did it get into the bedroom?
Didn’t anyone hear it bleating?
55.
If I cut my throat, will you/
Give me a loan? You can drink my blood
I don’t know if it’s infected
62.
Your heart is a huge emptiness?
I don’t even have one/ Why don’t you light up
Then blow smoke rings
65.
Wherever you’ve been, I’ve been there before
Whatever you’ve seen, I’ve seen more
Status seeking tourist, straining at the bit
69.
A penny for your thoughts?
You can’t buy anything with a penny, now
So why ask such a stupid question?
71.
Children are so wonderful/
A bit of bonsai never hurt that much
Or is your medication wearing off?
75.
You’re lost? Let me point you in/
The right direction/ I’m lost too
But why spoil such a pretty moment?
76.
You said I should play with no one/
And look where it got me/ Cheap sherry
Anti-psychotics, and a nursing home
78.
You put a spell on me/
You broke into my mind, stole my soul
It’ll cost me, to get it back?
82.
The old woman dying in her/
Daughter’s arms/ Calling out for her son
Forgetting she never had one
85.
Are you going to do that line?
Stupid fool, pondering the morality of the next rush
While children die of insanity
89.
You’ll be glad to see the back of me/
Everyone is, sooner rather or later
I regard it as a compliment
97.
You nearly drowned the other day?
You saw the other side? But here we all are
Misfortune can be so misleading
98.
Master of the world? And when did this/
Delusion arise? After your promotion?
Your third child? Did God tell you?
99.
Have you ever eaten your own?
Stranded by yourself in that other dimension
It must have been very tempting
Sunday 22 July 2012
Re-Offender
C.G. Freedman
Rouse Hill, NSW
‘I hope you can appreciate it’s nothing personal,’ Mr Peters declared emphatically, his eyes fixed tenaciously on Marc’s. The silver pen in his fingers turned over and over haphazardly. ‘We’re all very pleased with your performance in this role but unfortunately, given the current economic climate, redundancies are being forced on us at every level.’
Marc nodded and shifted in his chair, shooting a quick glance at his watch as he did so.
‘I understand,’ he said.
Mr Peters nodded, dropped his shoulders and noticeably exhale
d as he lent back into the creaking leather. He placed the pen down firmly on his desk as Marc continued.
‘I know it can’t be easy having to break this kind of news to people, but it’s all part and parcel of the business world. I’m just glad you’ve treated me like a person as opposed to a rusty cog in the corporate wheel. Thank you, Andrew.’
Marc stood and offered his hand to Mr Peters who seemed to hesitate momentarily, eyebrows raised.
‘Not at all, Marc. Not at all. Best of luck to you.’
Marc paced across the car park, juggling a box of his possessions and a multitude of keys in one hand,
his coat in the other. He passed his keys over and clicked open his boot. His possessions dropped in with a thud. Marc closed the boot, walked around to the driver’s side door and tossed his jacket into the back seat. He slammed the door shut and put the key in the ignition, neglecting his seat belt as he headed up the ramp.
He accelerated through a seemingly endless stream of amber lights before pulling into the car park behind The Crown Regal, a pub whose majesty ended at its name. Marc took a seat at the bar.
‘What can I get you?’ the cantankerous middle-aged bar woman spat as she finished processing her previous request. Marc quietly requested what was to be the first of many drinks that evening.
Marc drove home from The Crown Regal with considerably more caution than he arrived. He prudently pulled into the driveway and reached over his shoulder for his coat with blind eyes, consciously neglecting the box in his boot. He stepped softly to his front door. The cool night air whipped around wildly, tearing leaves from the trees and scattering a procession of debris down the street. Marc hardly noticed it even as it cut through his crinkled business shirt.
Marc remained focused, the fingers of his left hand desperately clutching the loose keys while his right hand directed the front door key into its slot. He carefully turned the handle and stepped into the threshold closing the door behind him with equal consideration. Slipping his shoes off with his feet, he hung the keys on the hook and placed his jacket over the armchair.
Tiptoeing into the kitchen he stood where he felt his frame would shroud most of the light from the gaping fridge. He grabbed a slice of cold pizza, consuming it with one hand while he both unscrewed the cap and raised the orange juice to his lips with the other. He spluttered with his mouth full of juice and pizza. He downed another slice and headed stealthily to the downstairs bathroom.
Marc rifled clumsily through the drawers of the vanity basin until his fingers clasped a tube of toothpaste. He covered his tongue in a thick layer of paste and filled his mouth with water, allowing the burning sensation to become completely unbearable before he sloshed the water around, gargled the vile concoction and spat it into the sink. Turning the faucet, Marc cupped his hands and threw the cold water against his face. He patted himself dry with a towel and crept up to the bedroom.
After stripping off, he climbed into the bed behind Jamie. Despite the heater being turned up high and the blanket warmers having spent the afternoon prepping the bed, Jamie always gave a convulsive shiver as Marc pressed his skin against hers. She stirred in her sleep. Rolling over, Jamie opened her eyes and craned her neck forward to kiss Marc. Marc sealed his lips and pressed them into the smooth nape of her neck. He kept them there for as long as his lungs could withstand before raising himself up above her onto his elbow to take a deep breath.
‘Sorry ... I got held up at work,’ he explained before nestling down behind her. The room was spinning as he shut his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.
Jamie called gently over to Marc from the bathroom door. Marc remained motionless. He was breathing heavily and tightly clutched a pillow against his chest. Jamie took up a new position at the foot of the bed and tenderly tugged the blanket. She gasped and jumped back half a step as Marc suddenly sat up in surprise.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s already half seven, you’re going to be late if you don’t make a move soon,’ Jamie answered. She moved toward the wardrobe and continued to dress.
‘Can you pass me my phone?’ Marc mumbled before clearing his throat.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jamie asked, curious.
‘I think I’m going to call in sick today if you don’t mind. I was such a long day yesterday, I’m shattered.’
‘Sure, baby,’ Jamie said.
She knelt down and rifled through Marc’s trousers and tossed his phone onto the soft pile of blanket at his feet. She shook the wrinkles out of his trousers and hung them over the edge of the laundry basket.
‘I’ve got to go. You rest up and I’ll see you this afternoon.’ She walked around to Marc’s side of the bed, leant forward and pressed her soft lips against his forehead. Marc placed his arm around the small of her back and pulled her in close to him. He held her there for a moment as she accepted the powerful warmth of his hug.
‘I love you,’ Marc said, releasing his grasp.
‘You rest up,’ Jamie repeated.
Marc divided his morning between the shower, the bed and the fridge. With afternoon approaching, he trudged into the study and sat at his computer, phone in hand.
‘Nothing at all? Nothing on the horizon?’ Marc asked for the nth time, running his fingers through his mess of hair before clutching at his thigh to restrain his unremitting leg movements. ‘Okay, well I’ve left my contact details with your receptionist in case your situation changes,’ Marc continued. ‘Thank you for your time, sir.’ Marc placed the phone gingerly on the desk. He stared at his computer screen for a moment before pushing his chair back away from his desk and springing to his feet.
‘Fuck!’ he yelled as he turned on his heel and paced around the study. He picked up the phone again, squeezing it in his fist. He raised his fist, still gripping the phone. Then his shoulders dropped. He placed the phone back on the desk and picked up the overturned chair. He powered down the computer and closed the study door behind him.
When Jamie arrived home Marc looked to the floor, his fists clenched at his sides. He assured her he was feeling well rested and explained that after a day in bed he needed to get some fresh air. Jamie offered to take a walk with him but Marc was already out the door. Jamie stood still for a moment, eyes wide. The roar of an engine brought her back to her senses. She rushed out the door to see Marc backing out of the driveway.
‘I’m gonna grab a bite. Don’t wait up,’ he called out the window, avoiding her bewildered gaze.
narratorAUSTRALIA Volume One Page 37