Wine O'Clock

 

‘Just the one’ Julie told herself, playing with the frost that had gathered on the wine bottle,

staring at the label, wondering whether it was grown on the right side of the hill – the joke

she and David used to share after their membership of the local wine club when they first

moved here. It was a way of getting to know people, David had said. You had to be a joiner,

if you wanted to win in life. It had certainly worked for him, as a sales director. For Julie,

she wasn’t so sure.

‘It can’t hurt.’

 

These excuses swirled around in Julie’s mind every time she got to ‘Wine O’Clock.

Nowadays you didn’t have to bother using the corkscrew and worry that the cork would get

stuck and you’d have to dig the thing out with your nails or a knife before you could even

take a sip.

 

No-one in Julie’s family ever drank, and because she was so painfully shy, her first glass of

champagne at a works Christmas party, gave her a confidence that was quite seductive.

Her friend Mandy’s husband was a lawyer in the city and they lived in modern concrete

boxes with manicured lawns and well-behaved shrubs behind traditional picket fences.

Whose turn was it to be under the limit to pick the kids up? They joked – they lived in the

same cul-de-sac and their husbands had good jobs. It wasn’t as if they lacked for anything.

 

Julie’s pigeon pair, Alex and Jessica, were the loves of her life. Alex was fourteen and on the

debating team. He always spoke the truth, or his truth as he saw it. Jessica who was only

eight, took after her mother, David was fond of saying – that meant pretty and compliant,

although that wasn’t quite the way he put it. Sweet and loving were the words he used.

Now it was Mandy on the phone. Julie let it go to message. She (Julie) needed to call back

urgently and she didn’t say why. Why didn’t she just call Triple O? Although, right now,

Julie was feeling headachy and she knew that just a sip would calm her down and restore her

equilibrium. She poured just half a glass. She filled up the glass and took a long gulp. Oh my

goodness, that felt great. Now she had the energy to call Mandy.

 

‘Hi Mandy, it’s Julie.

‘I just don’t know what to do. I’m beside myself.’

Julie braced herself for listening to another domestic disaster and took another sip. Julie

wanted to throttle her, making herself a mental note to avoid looking at Mandy’s throat the

next time they met, lest she be tempted to carry out the deed.

 

The kids were in bed and David was working late, so it seemed easy to pour another one

while watching the latest Scandi Noir. She’d never been particularly introspective, but

nowadays when she was alone, a pattern of asking herself how she had ended up here

emerged. It was a feeling of disconnectedness, going about her daily tasks in a robotic

fashion with an apathy she’d never encountered before. No-one had noticed, thankfully,

certainly not David, Mr Pollyanna himself. Life was a bed of roses, he himself a ray of

sunshine. It was only when the dog scrambling to the door, scraping the floor noisily with his

claws to greet his master, that she awoke with a start, realising she had finished the bottle.

She stashed it under the couch.

 

‘Oh, you’re still up love, sorry I’m so late.’

She yawned and said.

‘Oh, I just had to watch another episode, you know. They get you hooked. Do you want

anything?’

 

The sun streamed through the curtains like lightning rods at her waking eyelids making her

blink rapidly – Julie had overslept. She reached over to find David’s side empty. Where were

the kids and when had David left?

 

She stumbled down the hall to find Jessica and Alex glued to the television and crunching

through cereal. Pulling her dressing gown around her, she nonchalantly put the coffee

machine on. The children gave each other furtive glances, which she pretended to ignore.

‘So what’s happening today? I seem to remember you had a book day, Jessica? Have you got

everything packed?

Jessica grunted and kept chewing. Julie poured herself a milky coffee and drinking in large

gulps, smiling and waiting for her children to make conversation, to fill the morning silence.

‘Oh well, just give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll drop you off.’

Alex looked up from his plate, his hair flopping in his eyes.

‘Do you think you should drive today, Mum?’

She bristled.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. What do you mean?’

‘Buddy dragged the bottle out from under the couch this morning. Don’t worry, I put it in

next door’s bin.’

‘Oh well, he’s always finding strange things around the place, that dog. The cleaner probably

chucked it under there.’

 

The school route was jammed as usual with Range Rovers and the odd Porsche, clogging up

traffic as kids were deposited mothers lingered to chat. Julie was trying to keep up her usual

morning patter.

‘What have you got on today, Alex?’

He was glued to her phone, the earbuds firmly in place. Julie briefly looked back.

‘Mum!’ What are you doing?’ Alex screamed.

A little boy of about seven or eight was crossing the road aimlessly, far from the zebra

crossing. Julie braked hard.

She shot out of the car. She’d stopped just in time, the boy was walking away, the bonnet

having only nudged him. One of the mothers came racing over.

‘What are you doing, you crazy cow? I’m calling the police.’

‘He just ran out. I stopped. She said to the boy:

‘Are you OK? Where’s your Mum?’

 

The police were indeed called and Julie was under the limit. No charges were laid, but she

was given a verbal caution. Julie drove home very slowly. She spent the rest of the day

cleaning. She was good at putting everything out of her mind if she concentrated on one task

mindfully and expertly and exactly. After that, she re-ironed David’s shirts and then went out

and trimmed the already trim hedges at the front of the house.

 

By the time it came to pick the kids up – it was Mandy’s turn – she was sitting in the kitchen

watching the steam curling up from her cup of tea.

The children rumbled through the house to their bedrooms and Mandy threw her bag down.

‘Had a rough day?  I heard all about it from that snitch Bec at the canteen. Storm in a teacup.

So that’s what you’re drinking now? Tea? Where’s that marvellous Pinot Grigio you had?’

‘I just thought I’d take it easy.’

‘Oh, come on, what’s wrong with unwinding from a stressful day? I’ve got just the thing.’

She produced a bottle from her bag.

‘Not as good as the one we had last week, but just grabbed this one from the bottle-o. You

need cheering up. Come on, Julie, live a little!’

After that, Julie was honour-bound to produce said Pinot and poured them both generous

glasses. The kids were all rowdily enjoying video games upstairs and David wouldn’t be

home for ages and she ordered in a pizza. The beauty of all of them living in a cul-de-sac was

that Mandy could just walk home.

 

The following morning she asked David to drive the kids to school because she had a raging

headache. Alex looked at her strangely, grabbed his backpack and slumped out the door after

his father.

‘Bye, sweetheart, see you this arvo.’

 

She cleaned the house in a jiffy. Watching Dr Phil at lunchtime, her headache lingered. When

she saw those dysfunctional characters and their woes, she felt somewhat superior.

No, she could never see herself as that kind of victim, she who never drank before the

afternoon. She had a lovely house, a lovely husband and lovely children. Well, Alex wasn’t

so lovely these days. These days, he appeared to sneer. In fact, he’d become quite combative

and judgemental. He was meant to be learning, not judging.

She discovered the remnants of last night’s pizza. There was an unopened bottle of wine that

looked like it should be drunk. She resisted the urge and put the pizza in the microwave.

Julie sat on the deck, nibbling it. A hefty magpie was eyeing it off, edging closer. He was

about to overturn it, when Julie dropped the whole thing on the grass.

‘There you go’ she said. She went inside and took the wine from the fridge, pouring herself a

generous glass.

 

Julie entered the School of Arts building, all peeling paint and metal chairs that scraped, a

cough or two from the participants. She sat at the back while they spoke, wondering once

again why she was here, and praying for a new beginning but still feeling thirsty.

 

Tools for Tools

This is a tale told a few years ago, as part of my daily writing habit - using six randomly chosen words to write something, anything, in 30 minutes.  Raw and unedited. Enjoy!

 minute valve tweezer ruffle appetite brink

‘Julie, hand me that valve gasket cover, will you?

‘Um, what’s that?’

‘Right in front of you, dummy’

Julie never liked helping Jimmy with his car repairs. It wasn’t as if he was even a mechanic. Mostly he liked to use his short course at TAFE on car maintenance as if it were a PhD. His feathers would get ruffled if she handed him the wrong tool or part, and he would glance sideways at her, shaking his head, as if she were an idiot. Over the years she’d become a serf without even being aware of it. Handing him even the tweezers to pluck his eyebrows. You would think being a hundred kilo bogan with a long red beard and sideburns wouldn’t be so fussy about the unruly caterpillars that hovered above his placid blue eyes, but…

She handed him the somewhat cumbersome part. Wondering when she might ever get a starring role in this relationship. Of course the writing had been on the wall when she first met him, as after their first dinner he took her neatly manicured pinkie finger and used it as a toothpick. She was shocked at first but then Julie had thought it funny and quirky and as she hadn’t had much experience with blondish/reddish buff surfer boys out in the fibro wasteland of the Western Suburbs, where car wrecks and rusted playground equipment was the norm, she put up with it. 

When they’d first got married, she’d accepted his behaviour, because as her mother said ‘happy hubby, happy wife’ – she didn’t realise at the time that the expression was supposed to rhyme. Now that the kids had left home – Billy to the city to realise his dream of being a Reality tv star and Jemima also to the city to assuage her gargantuan appetite by becoming a pastry chef, it was her time – me time, as they often said in beauty ads on tv.

Now Julie was on the brink of freedom – all she had to do was pluck up the courage. Now or never – or if not actually free…her mind wandered, off into places she hadn’t been for years – sunning herself on the beach, reading a paperback without having to apply Jimmy’s sunscreen or wax his board. Going off to the country – driving off aimlessly without having to have a destination – not having to make Jimmy’s lunch and listen to him complain the bread was cut too thick – or the beer was too warm  - she was sailing off on a cloud of optimism when his voice cut through it.

‘Hand me that bloody wrench, Julie, how often do I have to ask?

When the paramedics arrived a couple of hours later, and poor Jimmy was declared non-responsive, Julie explained that the garage had always been a mess, and unfortunately the tool in question had fallen from one of the shelves Jimmy had rigged up without following the instructions on the box. 

 Another change of pace - a story I had published in the Seniors Magazine some time ago...

My time has come

As she gave the girl her credit card, Belle couldn’t help noticing her own hands - covered in sunspots and shaking slightly.  The veins were prominent and the fingers long.  Long fingers meant things. What was it?  She’d always had an artistic streak, her mother had told her so.  Now, sometimes she wasn’t quite so sure what those hands were for.

The girl behind the counter, with her black dyed hair and tattoo peeping from her long-sleeved uniform, looked harried, as though her mind was elsewhere. 

“Pin?”

Belle blinked quickly and punched in the numbers. She ventured:

“Nice day isn’t it?”

The girl mumbled something and turned to the next customer.  Belle believed it was always nice to be nice.  Maybe she had boyfriend problems – she didn’t look old enough to have children.  When Belle returned to her car, she realised she suddenly felt exhausted, gave up her plans for a drive and headed for home.

 She looked out at the garden.  The daffodils were just coming into their own - they looked lovely in spite of their faces bending downwards after the rain.   So many more weeds.  She sighed.   Now each time she got up from the comfy stool, her knees creaked.  Now she even hesitated to take the path down the side of the house, for it was always covered in a little moss, which sneaked up on you in the mountain winters.  Now the wet dropping leaves became a hazard to be avoided at all costs, lest she fall and break a hip or something.  In autumn the ashes, the oaks, the liquid ambers were morphing from green to yellow, russet to bright red.  Once it got colder, the confident wind blew soft flurries of snow down the main street.  Then the galleries and coffee shops did a roaring trade, as people escaped from the cold quite regularly to eat, drink hot chocolate, buy art and shop for that special gift.

When they’d first moved here, it was to get away from the city and enjoy the crisp clean air, although more often in the winter it was smoke laden, from all the wood fires burning across the valley.   Derek had taken early retirement and spent his days birdwatching while Belle ran a little boutique filled with lovely scents and beautiful imported knitwear. An idyllic life all mapped out for them.  

That August it was snatched from them as suddenly as the searing pain across Derek’s chest.   Fear and bewilderment crossed his face as the paramedics tried to stabilise him – two of them worked on him for twenty minutes before they gave up and quietly manoeuvred him in on the stretcher.  Belle was rooted to the spot.   The older one took her arm gently.

“Do you want to come, love?”

 She rode with Derek in the ambulance.  He was still warm when she touched his forehead.  Absentmindedly, she pushed back an unravelled thread on the collar of his fine wool sweater. Numbly she stared out at the black shapes of the trees flying past.

When her son, Colin, came up for the funeral, Belle was grateful for his brisk but tender efficiency.  He took charge of her finances and did the things around the house.  Her daughter-in-law, Moira, a short bulldog of a woman, was her usual aggressive, carping self,  making little digs that always made her feel old and inadequate.  Belle thought wryly that she was supposed to be the matriarch, yet Moira seemed to have all the power.  Somehow Colin was completely unaware of any discord at all.  Belle often bit her lip.  She certainly didn’t want to upset her son.  

After they left, she was alone once more. A huge weight lifted from her shoulders when she finally sold the shop.  Now at last she would be able to do something artistic, something for herself alone.

She tried watercolours, but there was too much unpredictability.  She couldn’t control the water sufficiently - it kept pooling in all the wrong places.  She went on to print making, but that was too arduous.  Where before she had regularly taken a brisk walk before dinner, with or without Derek, now it was an effort.    Belle started caring less about food too.  It was often enough just to have a bowl of soup or a sandwich.  When the weight started falling off, at first she was pleased.  It was nice to be able to fit into clothes she hadn’t worn in years.  But then, she started feeling unaccountably tired, and some days she couldn’t put one foot in front of the other.  

Her doctor suggested a change of scene – maybe visit her son?  The thought of Moira’s turned down mouth and all-seeing eyes following her everywhere filled her with dread.  She chided her for forgetting things all the time, as if Belle were her child.  

“Hello, Belle, it’s so good to see you.  Come in, let me get Colin to take this upstairs for you.  Colin?” she trilled. “Mother is here.”  She gave her the perfunctory peck on the cheek.  

“Is this all you brought?”  she said brightly, in that smarmy way she had, knowing that she didn’t really want her to stay.  She was probably even now plotting a way, through Colin of course, of making sure that this might be the last time she would be visiting them. She couldn’t help noticing some brochures for retirement homes on the hall table.

Belle knew that Moira would like to see her slotted away in one of those places.   That would be like the end of her life as she knew it. The thought was unbearable.  

She remembered clearly the time her friend Doris succumbed to family pressure and went into Morningside Glen.  Although the cold pale green walls were clean enough and the carpeted hallways and fresh flowers even hinted at opulence,  there was an overpowering feeling of being enclosed, being unable to breathe freely.   Wisps shuffling along in their old cardigans and slippers, pushing those Zimmer frames ahead of them. The musty slightly mothbally odour of old clothes.  She hoped that she didn’t smell like that. The dead eyes.  The resigned hunch of their shoulders.  The unrelenting cheerfulness of the activity supervisors as they tried to coax tired limbs to mild exercise and worn out brains to board games was so depressing,

 One day she’d had lunch with Doris in the communal dining room.  She’d pushed overcooked carrots and rissoles with gloopy brown gravy around her plate.  The residents couldn’t chew steak anyway.  Belle made her exit after the predictable dessert of tinned peaches and custard, citing a doctor’s appointment in the city. 

           ***.

 The more she thought about the time ahead the more she was convinced there was only one way out. Unless she acted now the days and months ahead would be rocky.  One long road, leading nowhere.                                                                                                                                                           

Belle picked up the book that had been sitting on her table for weeks.  A Calm Exit.  She opened it to the first page and the dedication.  For all those who deserve a quiet and dignified death without complications.  Make sure your wishes are followed.  As she turned the pages, she became more and more convinced -  this was the right solution.  

A little face appeared at the window.  Could she be dreaming?  Then a tap, tap, tapping.  Her brain snapped to attention.  She rose from the table.  

“Mrs Leighton, Mrs. Leighton...are you there?  Look at my new kite.”

It was the slight seven year old from down the road.  He always looked needy, seeking someone’s approval, someone’s attention.  Lost.  Hanging around, engaging her in conversation if she was out the front.  She wondered what sort of parents he had.  Might he be one of those latchkey kids?  The kids who seemed to bring themselves up.  At least, Belle could say she never neglected her child.  She had had the luxury of being at home when he was young and was positively thrilled when school holidays came around and she could take him to the Easter Show, make craft angels with him at Christmas. She smiled when she thought about the soccer games, with the under sixes all running in the same direction after the ball.  

But the tiredness now seemed to come from her very marrow.  It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying.

“Look...”  He started to run up the incline of their street, dragging the cheap flimsy fluoro  paper thing with him.   When he got to the top, flushed and excited, he was screaming at her to watch.  He ran back down and the thing was suddenly airborne, trailing behind him.  His little face was ecstatic.  

“Look, look....I’m flying!”

“I can see that...” she laughed suddenly, and it just bubbled out of her - it sounded strange, this laugh.  As though it were coming from someone else.  How long had it been since she had experienced real joy?  She continued watching him and he looked so happy.   When he finally came and put his arms around her, the shock made her recoil.  It felt almost alien, someone hugging her like that.  She picked up his kite.

“Don’t you think you should be getting home now, Aiden?”

He brushed the mucous from his dripping nose in a way that looked almost tough.

“Nah, Mum won’t be home for ages.  I go home whenever.”

Belle frowned. She looked anxiously down the street.  The sun had suddenly gone behind the clouds.  It was almost dark now. There was no-one around.  How worried she used to be if Colin was even fifteen minutes late from school.  What was the matter with these people?  Why did they even have children?

“Are you sure?  What time does she get home from work?  It’s getting dark. “

“I got a key.  I just let meself in.  Don’t worry, Mrs. Leighton.”

“I think you should come home with me.  Then I can ring your mum and let her know where you are.”

“Okay.”

He took her hand, almost too willingly, she thought.  What about stranger danger?  She’d been so paranoid about someone snatching her son from her, she’d often been over-protective, vetting his school friends, restricting his playtime, making sure he was never out of her sight.  Maybe she’d been too emotionally needy herself.  

After she’d heated up some soup and he was slurping it at the table, she picked up the phone 

“Hello?  Look, it’s Belle Leighton from number 44.  I just wanted to let you know that Aiden is with me.  It was getting dark....Sorry, what was your name?”

“Oh.  Sorry. It’s Rochelle.  Could you...?” It was a small breathy voice that sounded oddly familiar.  

“I’ll bring him over right now.”

The little fellow was oblivious, watching the cartoons.  He’d eaten every last morsel and was riveted to the set.  Now Belle was worried.  What if his mother reported her to DOCS or something?  Surely it wasn’t wrong to bring the little boy in out of the cold.  But maybe his mother saw her quite differently – as some sort of threat.  Or maybe she was just a single mother under a lot of pressure.  

“Listen, Aiden, your mother wants you home right now.  We’d better go.”

She buttoned her coat.  He was still sitting there.

“Aiden?”

“Can’t I just stay here?  It’s so warm.  I like it here.”

“Sorry, but you’ve got to go home.”

The tiny figure that came to the door had large eyes with dark circles under them.  It was the girl from the petrol station. She didn’t seem grateful that Belle had brought her son home.  She seemed embarrassed.  Belle could see from the doorway that the place was a mess.  Aiden slipped past her and turned the old television on.  Realising she wouldn’t be invited inside, Belle offered a smile and said,

“Well, I won’t hold you up then.  I just wanted to make sure that he was alright. “

“Thanks for bringing him home. “

She was already closing the door.  Belle left then, and as she walked slowly back to her house, she wondered whether it might be interfering if she kept an eye on the little guy.   Just to make sure he was alright.  Surely there could be no harm in that?

                                                                        ***

The hallway mirror gave her a glimpse of herself she hadn’t seen in a while – she looked the same, fair hair that would never quite straighten into a bob, kind blue eyes and tired lined skin.  That night she fell asleep in front of the television.    

 The next morning she walked slowly around every room, and thought about not being able to recognise her surroundings anymore.  Not remembering the day she and Derek had had a mock fight putting up the pale flock wallpaper.  How they both had glue all over them and had had to wash it off in a bubble bath later.  How Colin’s room still had a burn on the carpet when he’d pulled over the lamp.  They were lucky he hadn’t set the place on fire.    It was her job to navigate the family and all that that entailed – entertaining visitors and keeping everyone well-fed.   The kitchen cupboards had seen better days, but her trusty old Mixmaster had whirred its way through literally thousands of sponges and teacakes.

She had always taken for granted she’d live to a ripe old age with Derek - they’d be doddering about the house together making cups of tea, pretending to fight over the lifestyle and sport sections in the Herald.  He used to always get the sport and she would make a face, pretending disappointment. The tears welled up then.

There was a timid knock at the door.  That could mean only one thing.  It must be Aiden.  He mustn’t see her crying.  “I’m coming.....”  she said, as she, dashing into the bathroom, splashed her face with cold water and dabbed on some lipstick. 

But it was Rochelle.

“I hate to ask…but…could you possibly look after Aiden today?  I’ve got to do a late shift. If….um, if I don’t have a “responsible caregiver” (she said the words as if they’d been programmed into her) they’ll take him off me again….could you?”

Belle tried to hide her delight behind a responsible mature lady façade.

“That would be fine.”

                                                                  ***

Something shifted.  Belle got up early every morning and took Aiden to school.  She still made detailed to-do lists and was careful to eat right and stay active, now she had someone else to consider. She began to look forward to Aiden’s visits.  She made afternoon tea treats which he gobbled up.  Rochelle began to rely on her more and more. 

Belle planted more bulbs for the spring.  Narcissus this time.   Narcissus for the Greek god who saw his own reflection and fell in love with it but when she picked the first heavily scented flowers that September morning, she thought not only of love but gratitude.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 This is a change of pace - a true travel story! Enjoy! 

 

When one does things from altruistic motives, one has to accept that not all will be smooth sailing, that there will be some deprivation, some discomfort. There comes a point where sometimes you merely feel that while it’s alright to be doing Meals on Wheels or helping out at the school fete, you get an itch to do something big, to do something worthwhile to make a difference.  At least that's the theory. 

 

This was the reason I'd gone to Peru to volunteer.  My daughter declared :

 

"Mum's gone into her “Save the World Mode”, rolling her thirty-something eyes.

 

I'd been up to Macchu Picchu ten years before hoping for enlightenment, and been disappointed – it was impossible to find a quiet spot among the hordes of tourists, jabbering away in Dutch, German or English.  The ruins were amazing though. Those ancients had even created their own sundial and had a beautifully functioning society before it was all taken over by the Spaniards, who imposed their own kind of civilisation.

 

Now, after a long flight from Australia, I was on a bus, snaking along mountainous roads where all I could see from the window as we sped by was an arid and parched landscape, tiny land-locked villages and tin shanties, snotty nosed kids, assorted mangy dogs - they made me wonder what I was getting into.  Seven boring hours on the bus, only relieved by the hostess who organised a jolly game of bingo in Spanish.  I barely knew the numbers to ten but decided to have a go anyway.  Needless to say, I didn't win, but when I found out what the prize was, I was relieved.  The winner had to make a speech about how great the bus company was and extol their superior comfort and services.  Everyone clapped as the winner made his speech. 

 

I wasn't prepared for the cold that enveloped me when I almost fell off the bus, the last two steps too steep for my numb legs.  Luckily, Ricardo, a short stocky man with a ready grin who had organised the entire stay in Huancayo, a sizeable town of more than two hundred thousand, met me, waving a swaying cardboard sign with my name spelled incorrectly and hustled me on to the office, where I was relieved of several hundred dollars and the books I had brought for the children.  I was surprised there was such a rush to get this part of the transaction over with, especially since it was 10 o'clock at night. I never saw those books at the school.

 

“Now, I will take you to your homestay.” He said, hailing a rickety taxi, barely held together with prayers and a dangling crucifix from the rear view mirror.

 

We bumped along dark potholed streets and he finally deposited me at my homestay.  My heart sank when I saw how far away from the town proper it was.  A cloud of dust flew up as we shuddered to a halt in front of a reasonably large house.  I was introduced to the parents, Gloria and Emilio and their two daughters, Silvana and Raquel, who spoke a little English. I wondered why they all had parkas on, until I got inside.  The house was freezing – I shivered in my inadequate jumper and jeans.  

 

I was being welcomed over and over and as I tried to make sense of what they were saying, responding in my fractured Spanish, my eyelids became heavy with the anticipation of sleep.  Eventually I was able to indicate to them that I was really tired and would appreciate going to bed early, but I still ended up almost falling over before I was allowed to go upstairs.  Although the bed was lumpy and dusty, sleep claimed me almost immediately – sheer exhaustion.

 

My home stay family were charming but could be volatile.  There were often loud disagreements, but then they hugged.  Having very little Spanish beyond “Si” and basic vocabulary, I pretty much said yes to everything. The first thing I said Si to was an invitation to their god-daughter's wedding.  I was thrilled to be asked, looking forward to some fantastic rustic food and quaint country customs.

 

At about 5 am, I awoke to a lot of yelling and screaming, and doors being slammed.  I just lay there.  Perhaps the old man had had a heart attack or there'd been a burglary or something. I could hear machines, more yelling. I must have dozed off for a while, when there was a loud rap at the door. 

 

‘Apresurate, vamos tarde!’

 

The mother, brandishing a hair dryer, was telling me to get up and get ready.  She had been transformed into a diva in purple satin, with matching eye shadow and mauve lipstick and the girls, hair piled high and lacquered, had been squashed into tight shiny bodices and stilettos.  They actually all looked quite charming, in an early Eighties kind of way.

 

After the church, we headed off to the reception, in an enormous almost empty hall.  Miles of shiny white tiles covered the floor.  It was freezing, so I just shuddered and drew my jacket more closely to my chest, practically strangling myself with my scarf.

 

The bridal party and around two hundred guests finally arrived two hours later. While the tiny four foot eleven bride, covered in lace and satin and her dark eyed groom, with glossy slicked back hair, beamed at us, what followed were numerous speeches.  Not one, but two twenty-four piece bands played loud dissonant music. 

 

‘Nice music?’ Raquel smiled.

 

I smiled back.  The wedding gifts, rather than being decorously displayed on a table, were paraded through the hall. This was a sight to behold. The entire contents of a house - fridges, stoves, microwaves, a giant four poster bed, piles of towels, sheets, tablecloths - were carried into the reception by teams of short muscular Peruvian men.   I spent the next hours standing in the still arctic hall, while everyone got drunker and drunker on beer served in plastic cups.  After taking a few gulps, they blithely threw the contents over their shoulders.  Some sort of weird custom, I figured.  The result was that we were literally skating on beer.  It was hard enough to keep your balance and then they wanted me to join in their dancing too! 

 

It was close to midnight and the evening was going swimmingly, literally, because of the lake of beer we were standing in.  Suddenly I found myself in the middle of an altercation.  There was shouting, I wondered if perhaps an insult I couldn’t understand had been made - and then there was retaliation.  Fists were flying, and Ricardo was trying to keep me out of the melee. Once again, he bundled me into a taxi with the daughters and I was left wondering what was going on.  When we got home and I prepared for bed, the front door closing made me look out the window to see Raquel sneaking back down the road.  Perhaps the melee had involved her boyfriend and she was going to extricate him?  Who knew?  The parents arrived back in their ancient Toyota an hour later.  By that time I had tried to get to sleep several times, but didn’t get up.

 

The next morning, breakfast consisted of hot fruit juice – even though I was still cold, I couldn’t come at that.  This was followed by a soup – strange looking and even stranger tasting.  At this rate, I could drop those few extra pounds easily.

 

Remember that Si? Now we were off to view yet another presentation of the wedding gifts – this time at the home of the just married couple.  Far from being starry eyed newlyweds, they had been together several years and had a couple of children.  We sat outside, again in the bitter cold, and watched the exact same procession of whitegoods on strong Peruvian shoulders, go around and around in their backyard, while soup and meat roasted on outdoor grills.  It was numbingly cold, sitting out there, but luckily I managed to get myself practically glued to one of the outdoor ovens, ostensibly looking after the meat, watching it turn and sizzle.  I didn’t like to ask what it was, as it might have been guinea pig, a delicacy in the region I had not yet sampled. It tasted like chicken.

 

That afternoon Ricardo arrived at the house and after a whispered conference with the parents, said he was moving me to another homestay.  He didn’t give me a reason, but I guessed it had something to do with the dust-up at the wedding.

 

This too, was an average looking house – suburban and ordinary.  There was a mother, Ana and her son Alfonso – he spoke quite good English – but there was a palpable sense of sadness about the mother and it wasn’t until a few days later that I realised why – she had lost her older son tragically two years before – in unfortunate circumstances as I was later to discover.  

 

On Sunday we went out to the cemetery. Ana was beside herself, putting flowers on the pristine grave that overlooked the town.  I didn’t quite know what to do - it seemed like such a private moment and here I was sharing it – a middle-aged stranger from Australia come to teach English. She told me that the son had been pushed from a third storey balcony - she said it was no accident - by one of his best friends, who apparently was jealous of him.  She said the police had no interest in investigating, because the other boy’s parents were wealthy and influential in the town.  I didn’t know what to think.  Here I had a little room at the back of their house – it was nice and private but the water supply was erratic, so I had to time my showers and washing to when I thought it might be available, usually before two pm. Hot water was rare, and I found myself washing my smalls and re-wearing other clothes.  

 

The first day I went out to the “school”- a tiny concrete hut with a dirt floor. Hopeful toothless grandmothers lined up outside, eagerly pushing their grandchildren forward.  The children were cramped in, all ages, all sizes, keen to learn English, sitting on the floor.  I wanted to do something, so I bought a couple of dozen plastic tables and chairs. The kids were lovely and eager to learn. 

 

I went out there every day on the local bus and was always shocked to see open drains like small rivers everywhere, with plastic bags and rubbish floating along. The wonky footpaths in the town were treacherous, too, and you could easily fall into a hole if you weren’t careful. One day there was a loud workers demonstration threading through the streets.  I started talking to one of the participants in a combination of sign language and fractured Spanish. She told me these protests were a common occurrence but hardly any reform ever came about. She shrugged her shoulders and said “corruption”.

 

I lasted a few weeks, but was incredibly lonely as I was the only foreigner in the programme at that time. So I left to go back home, stopping off in Los Angeles where a friend I had met several years before at the Hollywood Bowl let me sleep on her lumpy futon while I waited for a flight home. The world of difference between those two worlds! An entrepreneur, she took me to the Beverley Hills Hotel to meet her friends, then stopping off at Trader Joe’s for a two dollar bottle of wine, we went to a party.  Her cat prowled around me all night and the garish fishbowl light kept going on and off, so it was with eyes practically hanging out of my head that I boarded that Qantas flight for home. Si!

 

 

 

 

 Can't believe it's more than a year since I posted anything...here goes!

FOR THE LOVE OF THE PEOPLE

There was once nothing at all extraordinary about this fifty year old woman. Nothing about the way she looked, or the way she spoke, when she was a teenager living near a rubbish tip would have marked her for greatness.

That is, until she met her benefactor, a man who wore real leather jackets, beautiful shoes and snapped his fingers at servants, circulating easily and comfortably among the poor in the slums as easily as he did in the boardrooms of the rich.

When she first met him in the hotel bar, she was still a teenager with an elastic band holding her pony tail. Shy and quiet, with nothing but a tremulous smile and an eagerness to escape her mundane life. She was about to leave the bar when he touched her arm and said:

‘What’s your emergency?’

By the time she left him, there were diamonds in her hair as well as on her fingers. Under his tutelage her handwriting improved, her nose succumbed to an elegant reshaping and her body was toned. Speech and elocution lessons and a makeup expert connected the dots between ordinary and stunning.

Now her chihuahua’s paw gently brushed her thigh when he wanted to climb down, to eat his specially prepared foie gras from his gold plate.

‘Are you hungwy, my little pet? Here, mummy feed you.’

She picked up the gold spoon. As far as she knew, no-one had ever trained a dog to be spoon-fed. What an achievement, perhaps she could apply for the Guiness Book of Records?

‘Now, darling. You need to have your shampoo.’ She clicked her fingers and a servant magically appeared. That was usually all he needed, and placed the dog in his arms. He nodded  walking away with the precious bundle.

She sat, sipping her tea and looking out at the ocean. It was particularly beautiful today – blue and placid and close yet so far away. The sea was a gift – it could change your mood in an instant. Staring into the distance, it calmed you, made you think of nothing but its blue depths.

She lay back on the chaise longue and closed her eyes. Stillness, quiet, only the scent of the peonies so recently plucked from the garden and the tinkle of bells from the vendors in the street.

It wouldn’t be very long now until they came for her, those people in the street, those who had accepted her largesse so gratefully and easily, who had loved her, hadn’t they? Wasn’t it she who had thrown banknotes from the limousine, who’d visited the poor in their ghettos, who’d donated an hour of her time once a month in the soup kitchen, who’d spoken to them so gently from the television when they were angry about something. Just like a mother, really.

And what could you do to your mother? You had to respect her and love her, didn’t you?

You couldn’t possibly do her any harm, could you?

 

Kenny the Kelpie

 A new short story...Kenny the Kelpie

Nothing makes any sense any more, Desiree – do you agree?

‘No, nothing does.’ She said, lighting another cigarette, and checking her manicure, bored but wanting to agree. Her husband was always pontificating and she didn’t really have to bother even arguing, not that she would anyway, he was a professor of psychology.

‘The mass psychology hypnosis is prevalent – they are looking for someone to give them ‘rules to live by’. 

‘A crowd arises when people have a lack of structure – they look for someone who offers them structure – an excess of rules, if you like.’

‘But the conditions have to be right for this to occur – firstly, the population has to have a lack of meaning in their lives. For example, so many people were doing ‘bullshit jobs’ that they hated anyway. Then they have to have a social disconnection and then anxiety, a free floating kind of anxiety. Then there has to be an object for that anxiety to latch onto – it can be anything, but the Corona virus was perfect. Experts in modelling the impact of the virus gave wildly pessimistic mortality predictions – for example, in Sweden, they predicted without a lockdown last year, in one month they would have 80,000 deaths – they didn’t lock down and had 6000. 

‘Can a surgeon hypnotise a patient when they’re allergic to anaesthesia? Is this possible? Apparently it is.’

Fletcher answered the question before she had a chance to. She was certainly hypnotised by him when they first met in that smoky bar – he had all the attributes she craved, good looks, charm and that indefinable something. Charisma? Nowadays she could only yawn or try to stifle one. Now he was just boring most of the time. What was his problem? 

It wasn’t as if he’d lost his job or they were on the breadline. Business was booming. His psychology practice was going gangbusters, people practically breaking down the door to divest themselves of their fears and terrors, as the pandemic raged. Although nowadays mostly it was on Zoom, and she had to keep their kelpie quiet while he worked.

Kenny the Kelpie was usually quiet when listening to Professor Fletcher. It was quite fascinating, all that talk about mass hypnosis and how the world was going to hell in a handbasket. Those weren’t the words he used of course, that was Kenny’s take on it. Sometimes Kenny thought the professor was off his trolley, but mostly he made a lot of sense, particularly when he was talking about the current situation.

‘So, when people are in a state of anxiety and are socially isolated with no clear focus for any length of time, this can lead to a mass hypnosis, and all people need is for a superhero to come along to tell them he has the answer for everyone to fall in line. This if course, was not entirely based on my own research, but I am going to expand on it.’

‘So, what do you think, Desiree, I was planning to wrap this up, add a few more of my personal observations and regional figures and deliver it at the Psychology Today lecture that I’m giving next month.’

His wife, pretty and unconcerned, was reading a Who magazine and drying her nails. Professor Fletcher frowned. Kenny raised an eyebrow and then dropped a paw on Desiree’s leg, just to keep her in the loop.

‘Oh, darling, what did you say? Sorry. I think that’s a great idea’ she replied, having no idea what the great idea was.

Kenny himself was very contented to be living in their household, where he had two square meals in a round bowl, lots of love and exercise. Desiree had given him applesauce once out of a desire to spoil him, but it led to an extended visit to the vet. She never did it again and Kenny had no complaints whatsoever.

His early years were spent working hard on a farm but when his owner had to leave the land and move into a bedsit he couldn’t take Kenny with him. What befell him next wasn’t pretty.

His new owner would keep him chained up on a truck all day while he whistled and listened to shock jocks on the radio. He suffered the odd kick in the ribs, but took it in his stride. Kenny couldn’t believe his luck when the tradie literally traded him in at the pound for a pit bull, who would do his guarding job properly he said.

Kenny suffered an anxious few days wondering what was next, but was bowled over when the lovely Desiree patted him through the bars at the Dog Pound and said:

‘Do you want to come home with me?’

Kenny wished he could speak English, and say yes, yes, yes, please, so instead he just whimpered and wagged his tail in appreciation. 

Professor Fletcher was still droning on about a two tier society. Kenny pricked up his ears. What was the matter with humans, didn’t they know there would always be masters and slaves? In his world, that’s the way it was. Dogs had owners, but of course lucky cats had staff. 

He couldn’t see why humans couldn’t just get along. They had everything, they could push a button and machines did their bidding, flick a switch and lights went on, communicate with a moving picture held in their hand.

Maybe it was time canines took charge? All this thinking was making Kenny sleepy and he 

‘Desiree, darling, where are my socks? I can only find one of the Mickey Mouse ones, you know the ones you got me for my birthday’.

Fletcher was such a softie and sook, and so completely incompetent in any day to day situations such as laundry, what to eat, where to go, and so perfect in his calibrations of statistics and his ability to measure social constructs that it was mind-boggling. 

‘Look in the laundry basket. Or they might be on the line, or one of the magpies might have made off with them. Can’t you wear some others? What does it matter/’

‘They’re my lucky ones. I’m giving my presentation today and it’s crucial that I wear these.’

Desiree got up from the couch, dramatically, switched off The Kardashians and went into the laundry. She returned with the sock and made Fletcher run for it, as she bounced around the room, dangling it in front of him. Eventually he caught her and they collapsed in laughter.

That made Kenny very happy, hearing them laugh. And it allayed the fears that he’d had lately, of the authorities coming for the professor, rounding him up like stray cattle, and spiriting him off to somewhere. Kenny had been watching old documentaries of dissenters being brutalised and he didn’t want it to happen to his second favourite human. When Desiree was off getting snacks or polishing her already perfect nails, Kenny had perfected putting his paw on the remote just so, to change the channel. When she came back, she was quite happy to watch what he’d chosen, although she had a rather puzzled look on her face.

Kenny knew a thing or two about rounding up sheep. You just went round and round, barking and giving them an odd nip or two, it was quite harmless, and for their own good, particularly for the cagey ones who wanted to do their own thing and strayed away from the flock. Kenny was an excellent kelpie.  It was in his DNA – but he didn’t think Humans could be spirited off the footpath or anything. That would be just ridiculous.

So it was with wailing and gnashing of teeth, that Desiree and Kenny found out that the professor had indeed been spirited off the footpath and ushered into a large black car, and they even held his head down, lest he hurt himself getting in.

They were watching from the window, as they usually did every afternoon, for Professor Fletcher’s happy whistle as he came down the street from the bus – he always caught the bus, carrying his briefcase, when two men in suits stepped up, said something to him and bundled him into the car.

Desiree raced outside, Kenny’s nails skittering on the floor behind her, but by the time they got to the street, the car had slid away. Kenny wasn’t sure what his next move should be, so he just sat there, jumbled emotions churning away inside him. What had just happened? Was it anything to worry about? He knitted his brows, waiting for orders from his mistress.

Desiree was on her phone.

‘Fletcher, honey, I thought I just saw you come home but…um, call me as soon as you can. Love you…’

Kenny wanted to second that. But he had a bad feeling. And usually he could trust his instincts. The rude way those guys grabbed Professor Fletcher told him everything. They weren’t to be trusted. It’s not as if he could have run after them either. It wasn’t like herding sheep. Those days were long gone and they were in retrospect, enchanting. Endless green fields, a blue sky and the fresh growth of hay. At the end of the day he was exhausted but he felt satisfied and happy and that he was doing his job. Now all he felt was helplessness.

He followed Desiree inside. She sat there morosely for a while, after having tried to message and call her husband umpteen times. When she’d finally remembered to feed Kenny and herself, her phone rang. It was the professor.

‘Where are you?’ Kenny heard her say. He wished she would put him on speakerphone so he could listen. He pricked up his ears and stared soulfully at his mistress, giving her moral support if she needed it. He nudged closer to her and put his paw on her lap. She reciprocated absentmindedly by patting him.

‘Oh my God, they can’t do that, can they?’

Now Kenny was really worried. Where was the professor? What were they doing to him? It didn’t sound too good. He’d seen stuff on television which alarmed him, people being manhandled by police and even dogs involved. They were trained to hurt people. Now that was a new thing. They were herding people like sheep, and attacking them too. He was ashamed of his species sometimes.

‘I’m coming right down. I’ll see you soon.’

He wanted to go too, wherever it was, so once she got her car keys and bag he blocked the front door and just whimpered, those big soulful eyes of his dripping with longing.

‘Oh, alright, you can come in the car.’

Kenny threw himself into the backseat and curled his tail around him, waiting patiently as Desiree hurtled through the dark streets, completely ignoring red lights. He was getting worried they might not make it, that some truck would collect them at a red light and it would be ‘all over, red rover’.

When they got to the brightly lit police station, he waited patiently again and an hour later, he was greeted with hugs from the professor, who was surprised to see him.

Kenny had never been happier, and he was dying to hear what had happened. It turned out the professor had been charged as an ‘instigator’ because of his speeches at the university and while he was currently out on bail, pending a hearing, things were not looking too good.

Kenny knew that things would never be the same again, not now that the professor’s work and liberty were at stake from the wolves of tyranny. He was stumped. Once dinner was over and the professor’s face appeared on the telly with a banner marking him a terrorist and newsreaders alternately shrieking and wagging their fingers in horror at Professor Fletcher’s apparent defection and betrayal of his colleagues, Kenny beat a retreat to his backyard.  He could hardly eat his own dinner, the scenes on the television had so unnerved him and it was unusual for him to leave anything in the bowl. He lay there morosely for what seemed like hours, batting away flies and ants.

However, he kept his ears open and could still hear them whispering anxiously long into the night. What did this mean for him? If the professor went to jail for any length of time, would Desiree decide she didn’t need Kenny after all? Might she move to a tiny apartment and not be able to bring him? He’d put his horrible experience with Tom the Tradie behind him. Those cruel months chained up on the back of the ute, and then in the RSPCA kennels, waiting for a new owner, were something he had almost forgotten. Now the classic fear of abandonment came bubbling up again. 

But it wasn’t like Kenny just to think of himself. He had to come up with a plan. What could he do, as a mere canine, apart from offer solace and support to his owners? He couldn’t let the professor be done over. 

Desiree was always listening to those self-help tapes. There ought to be some wisdom there, some answers to their current predicament. He snuck into the office and put his paw on play, turning down the volume so as not to bother them. 

‘Take a long slow gentle breath…hold it…and let it go…then take another breath…

Soft sounds of the sea washed away in the background and he almost dropped off after the first five minutes, but made himself stay awake to the end. Now finally he had a plan, but it would require direct action for it to be effective.

But then his usual doubt set in. He was numb with indecision. What could he do, as a mere canine? He’d heard Desiree saying she’d put her thinking cap on, maybe that was the way to go. He moped around the living room for a while, trying to find something to put on his head which might assist him, rejecting the cat’s bowl, finally finding a pair of the professor’s shorts, nudging them over his ears, hoping for some enlightenment.

After an hour and a numb feeling of hopelessness he gave up. This was ridiculous. You didn’t start a movement on your own. You had to call on your tribe. He’d call a canine council of war. The neighbourhood consisted of many pedigreed four legged friends, although Donnie the spotted Dalmation only had three. There was Felicity the Foxie at number 10,  Lionel the Labrador across the road at number nine, the various mutts which had no name who lived at Mrs Wilson’s, and his gorgeous best friend Suzie the Springer Spaniel next door. 

Ever since he’d moved in with the professor and his lovely wife, he’d made it his business to get to know his local comrades, whether it was out walking through the park near the flowering gums, or when he’d come across them at the shops, tied up to the railings. A friendly howl or two never did any harm. Now was the time for them to all get together and storm the courtroom. But what about the security? They had alarms and things, and the guards weren’t exactly negligent. Look how swiftly thy grabbed the professor and frogmarched him away. He’d have to consult Suzie, she would have some good ideas and plus, her human was a well-known barrister. Surely she’d picked up some tips during her tenure there. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and nor was this major operation. It would take some expert help.

Kenny the Kelpie snuck out the back door, scampering across the yard, nudging the loose fence paling, and gaining access to the neighbour’s yard. A friendly frog croaked at him, as he waited near the back steps. Suzie was just polishing off her dinner. She was lucky, only the best. Dine with Me, it was called.

He gave his special Woof a try. That would usually bring her out to the backyard, and waited. Dusk was coming up over the trees and it was rather beautiful. He sat there in reverie gazing at the full moon tentatively hanging in the trees. He got a shock when Suzie bounded down the steps. They nuzzled each other and inspected their hindquarters, obtaining important information about where they’d been and who they’d been with. There was no need for the protracted conversations Humans had. This was what had kept their ancestors, the wolves, safe for millennia.

Now to the matter at hand. Saving Professor Fletcher. 

It was a searingly hot Monday. There was a massive crowd swelling outside under the long columns surrounding the courtroom. Novice journalists jostled with spectators, shoving their fluffy mikes in front of anybody who looked important enough to interview. Professor Fletcher’s case was about to be heard. Desiree was wearing dark glasses and had a harness around Kenny. Kenny had finally realised he now had to behave in the opposite way he always had – not to be running around in open pastures and nipping sheep, instead now walking steadily and stopping at traffic lights, looking around anxiously every now and then at Desiree. She played her part with aplomb, wearing a dark dress and jacket, the loud nail polish and lipstick completely gone.

While they were waiting to go through security, Kenny noticed an extraordinary number of ostensibly seeing eye or companion dogs lining up with their owners. That was exactly what he was hoping to see. Kenny and Suzie had been planning this for ages and somehow the Humans had fallen into line, as though through mental telepathy. It was extraordinary, this show of support for the professor. 

It seemed to take hours for everyone to drop their phones and keys and whatever into the baskets, go through the screen and pass an unsmiling guard. 

Amazingly, the dogs were quietly obedient, something Kenny had never seen before. They’d all been friends at the park and in the neighbourhood, barking at each other and nipping and sniffing their nether regions. They realised suddenly that this was a place where justice would be served and they had to play their part.

The crusty old judge barely looked at the crowd in the courtroom, before reading out the 24 and a half complaints against the professor from his colleagues. He had to decide whether Professor Fletcher could continue in his role at the college. The case had been brought by two of his colleagues, who had 12 complaints each. The half a complaint was brought by the college’s cleaner, Myrtle, who actually liked Fletcher but who was tired of emptying the professor’s overfull bin and wanted him to stop creating so much paperwork.

While the judge droned on, Kenny wondered how long his friends could keep quiet. Some of the complaints were clearly ridiculous, like ‘inciting terrorism’ and ‘breaching the peace’– Kenny had never known the professor to even raise his voice.

It would all ultimately depend on the professor’s testimony, his credibility and proving the nefariousness of his colleagues who had reported him to ASIO initially. Although that case had been dropped, he was still in danger of losing his tenure. This hearing was crucial.

After the judge had read all 24 ½ complaints, he looked exhausted and quite simply over it and simply asked Professor Fletcher to explain, in his own words, why he should be reinstated.

Professor Fletcher began:

‘Well, as you know, my hypotheses have been sorely tested recently. But I am a loyal citizen and would never put my students or my family in harm’s way. I am not a terrorist, I am a peace-loving man. The people who have sought to demonise me have other agendas which as you will see from this short video produced by one of my students…may I, Your Honour?’

The judge nodded and Professor Fletcher pressed play. 

What followed was a video of a conversation between two men - Professor Miles and his associate, a rough type– it looked to be in a basement or in an underground carpark. Fletcher turned the volume up.

‘…so, let’s get rid of him then. He’s a pain in the arse. Your classes have always been less popular than his, but with him out of the picture, your numbers will soar, we’ll have less hassles, the students won’t hold demonstrations about their’ – here he crooked both index fingers – ‘rights’ and we can all breathe easier. He always was trouble, wasn’t he?’

‘You’re not suggesting rubbing him out, are you?’ the older one said.

‘Only metaphorically. This remains a non-violent campus.’ ‘I have contacts in ASIO. I’ll get the ball rolling.’

The courtroom was stunned – both humans and canines stared at the video, not quite believing what they were seeing.

The judge cleared his throat.

‘Well, I think I’ve seen enough. It appears there has been some collusion on the part of the College. Which is clearly unacceptable. Professor Fletcher, in view of your own testimony and what I have seen today, I believe you have no case to answer. You are free to go.’