The bush just took off. The gum trees were happily playing in the wind and the grass trees were proudly showing off their spears then absolute transformation as the fire raged through. In just a blink of an eye the soft green views changed to a scary orange, red and black sky. Branches bounced off the hard ground shattering into tiny pieces and the once green leaves disappeared into a cloud of ash. The oily Spinifex caught like a match and fuelled the ground cover like an angry dragon.
Larry, the Loriquet escapes the trees and rests for a moment on a rough red sandstone rock.
“Where is she? Where is Lucy?” he murmurs to the wind. “Luuuuuuucy!”
It’s silent, yet deafening. The black cockatoos have disappeared and even the sulphur crested white cockatoos, who usually hang around to see the action, have gone. The kites and Harry the wedge-tailed eagle are cruising around on the thermals, not too close but close enough to see, dive down and grab an unsuspecting and desperate little mouse. The fire cracks, bangs and roars and leaps down the valley with total disregard for anything in its way.
“Luuuuuuuuucy. Where are you my love?”
Leonard, his mate from next door flies in. “Hi Larry, what a bloody mess. I’m totally fed up with all these fires. Every week I’m rebuilding my nest. Where are you off to?
“Leonard have you seen Lucy? After dinner, she went down to the river for a bathe and now I can’t find her. It’s dark, it’s hot and she’s going to be so frightened. She needs me. I know. I can feel her trying to tell me where she is. I’ve flown up and down the river bed and even checked out some of the caves where we hide. No Lucy”
“Hey mate. I’ll help you. Let’s do another fly over” and he pats Larry’s feathery cheek.
They take off, like little spitfires they dive and duck through the bush. The river mirrors the ugly bush with red shimmering trees and sizzling rocks and they can’t get too close.
“Look there’s a beach” shouts Larry.
They swoop down and rest their little feet in the soft cool sand. If only Lucy could find them here. It’s like a little haven, an oasis amidst the mess.
There’s a furious buzzing in the air and a swarm of bees whizz into view and settle on a lonely palm. They are chattering in some weird foreign language. Larry hops over “Have you seen Lucy? She looks just like me but her wings are slightly duller and her chest not so red”. They shrug their wings and wiggle their heads. Larry is not quite sure whether the answer is no, or whether they don’t understand. He tries gesticulating, holds hands with Leonard and then gives him a big kiss. The bees start to giggle.
Then Willy the Wallaby hops in. It’s getting pretty busy on the beach.
Larry wanders down to the water. There’s movement around the reeds and a noise. It’s a little squeaky and hoarse but, could it be, could it be Lucy? His tummy turns over and his eyes start to weep with hope. “Oh please”. He pushes the reeds apart.
“Lucy, oh Lucy. It’s you. Are you OK? Are you hurt? Let me give you a hug”
“Larry, I was so worried about the babies but they’re safe. Look I put the nest on this raft. We were fine until I got stuck in these reeds”
And it all ended happily ever after!
Friday 31 July 2009
Monday 27 July 2009
They had nothing to say to each other (Peta)
They had nothing to say to each other
Side by side they stared at the ocean
dark and mesmerising
The silence hung like the thick grey clouds in the midnight sky
The cheese yellow moon sent slivers of light glowing across the silky sand.
Too many words had flowed like a torrent
Fast and furious, hurtful
No holes barred, no going back
beside her he remained still
an unmoving statue like a concrete wall
they had loved so deeply for so long
but distrust had gone unspoken
a wedge between them
now the wounds were open and raw
exposed and bloody
there was no bandaid to stem the flow
no miracle cure
it was over
Another tear slipped down her cheek
Now a glistening slippery slope
Shivers came and went
Goosebumps rose from her porcelain skin
she wrung her finely boned hands
twisting turning
she stole a furtive glance
not wanting to catch his eye
Bent forward
Dark wispy curls fell across his face
clenched fists pushed deep into his woollen coat
His breath was heavy, uneven
Dark eyes tightly shut
Long lashes curling
His lips pursed, forehead wrinkled
old despite his boyish good looks
Her heart was wrenched
the time had come to go
she pulled herself to her feet
shaky
lightening struck
the horizon glowed
thunder crackled in the distance
soon there would be rain
heavy cleansing rain
she moved leaden legs one at a time
the muddy grass thick and dewy
the effort was supreme
leaving him there
no words of good bye
she struggled towards the car
waves crashed so close
the spray catching her hair
stinging her reddened eyes
much later she sat in the rusty metal shell
staring through the condensation into the darkness
he rose
shoulders heaved as he drew in deeply
exhaling, clouds of breath escaped
he slouched as he shuffled towards the road
for a long time he stood on the roadside
cars raced by
gravel sprayed
he was patient
there was no hurry
and then he was gone
in an instant her pain was unbearable
her heart burst beneath her breast
now it was real
very real
she was alone
alone after so long
no hand to hold
no voice to calm
no love.
Side by side they stared at the ocean
dark and mesmerising
The silence hung like the thick grey clouds in the midnight sky
The cheese yellow moon sent slivers of light glowing across the silky sand.
Too many words had flowed like a torrent
Fast and furious, hurtful
No holes barred, no going back
beside her he remained still
an unmoving statue like a concrete wall
they had loved so deeply for so long
but distrust had gone unspoken
a wedge between them
now the wounds were open and raw
exposed and bloody
there was no bandaid to stem the flow
no miracle cure
it was over
Another tear slipped down her cheek
Now a glistening slippery slope
Shivers came and went
Goosebumps rose from her porcelain skin
she wrung her finely boned hands
twisting turning
she stole a furtive glance
not wanting to catch his eye
Bent forward
Dark wispy curls fell across his face
clenched fists pushed deep into his woollen coat
His breath was heavy, uneven
Dark eyes tightly shut
Long lashes curling
His lips pursed, forehead wrinkled
old despite his boyish good looks
Her heart was wrenched
the time had come to go
she pulled herself to her feet
shaky
lightening struck
the horizon glowed
thunder crackled in the distance
soon there would be rain
heavy cleansing rain
she moved leaden legs one at a time
the muddy grass thick and dewy
the effort was supreme
leaving him there
no words of good bye
she struggled towards the car
waves crashed so close
the spray catching her hair
stinging her reddened eyes
much later she sat in the rusty metal shell
staring through the condensation into the darkness
he rose
shoulders heaved as he drew in deeply
exhaling, clouds of breath escaped
he slouched as he shuffled towards the road
for a long time he stood on the roadside
cars raced by
gravel sprayed
he was patient
there was no hurry
and then he was gone
in an instant her pain was unbearable
her heart burst beneath her breast
now it was real
very real
she was alone
alone after so long
no hand to hold
no voice to calm
no love.
Tuesday 21 July 2009
Life Partners (Kerry)
They had nothing to say to each other. It had all been said. The creamy silence was made the richer by the steady purring of the cat on Elsie’s lap. She stroked it gently, absent-mindedly, with her right hand. In her left she held the gnarled hand of her sister. Her attention was not on the view through the window although she noted the cows standing quietly by the shed. Her gaze returned to her sister’s face. Maude was sleeping now, but restlessly. Occasionally her eyes would flick open and search for Elsie. Elsie could feel the tiny squeeze conveying gratitude and love.
The room held many of their treasured possessions. The bookshelf beside the fireplace contained their father’s collection of gardening books, which he had used to establish the rambling garden around the house. The heavy perfume from the dark red roses at Elsie’s elbow cast a sweet ambience in the room. She had arranged them, fresh from the garden that morning. Elsie loved the way you could walk through the French windows onto the gravel outside and be led through the abundance of the garden along the little pathways. The garden was her territory. She had always been father’s helper in the garden and when he died she was naturally the one to take over the care of the garden.
Maude was a cat collector. The mantelpiece was home to her tabby cats, marmalade cats, rollicking kittens, black cats, and white cats. The painting of the two haughty Siamese cats which hung over the fireplace had been done for Maude by her niece as a surprise for her fiftieth birthday. The old ceramic cat on the floor by the door had belonged to their mother. Maude claimed it was the favourite of all her cats.
Elsie couldn’t recall when they had made the decision but she and Maude had become passionate about Jersey cows soon after their father had died. They already had a predominantly Jersey herd, but now they were determined to build up a prize Jersey stud. After the first year they showed their best milker at the local show. They were given encouragement from the judge and started to appreciate the characteristics that were highly prized in the breed. It was the beginning of a lifetime of showing cattle.
The women had continued to milk the cows by hand. Elsie loved the closeness of the warm bodies against her face as she rhythmically stripped the milk from the udders. She never tired of the smoky sweet aroma of the foaming milk in the bucket. There was no hurry.
Sometimes they were asked why they hadn’t married and had families of their own but when your life is already complete there seemed no point. Many of the young men early on had gone to the war anyway and never returned. Elsie and Maude had each other.
Elsie’s attention was drawn back to the present when she heard Maude give her last quiet sigh. It sent a little ripple out into the room stirring the air so slightly. Elsie felt the hand slacken its grip. She reached over for the glass of water and the tablets.
Alternative Title:
In sickness and in health
The room held many of their treasured possessions. The bookshelf beside the fireplace contained their father’s collection of gardening books, which he had used to establish the rambling garden around the house. The heavy perfume from the dark red roses at Elsie’s elbow cast a sweet ambience in the room. She had arranged them, fresh from the garden that morning. Elsie loved the way you could walk through the French windows onto the gravel outside and be led through the abundance of the garden along the little pathways. The garden was her territory. She had always been father’s helper in the garden and when he died she was naturally the one to take over the care of the garden.
Maude was a cat collector. The mantelpiece was home to her tabby cats, marmalade cats, rollicking kittens, black cats, and white cats. The painting of the two haughty Siamese cats which hung over the fireplace had been done for Maude by her niece as a surprise for her fiftieth birthday. The old ceramic cat on the floor by the door had belonged to their mother. Maude claimed it was the favourite of all her cats.
Elsie couldn’t recall when they had made the decision but she and Maude had become passionate about Jersey cows soon after their father had died. They already had a predominantly Jersey herd, but now they were determined to build up a prize Jersey stud. After the first year they showed their best milker at the local show. They were given encouragement from the judge and started to appreciate the characteristics that were highly prized in the breed. It was the beginning of a lifetime of showing cattle.
The women had continued to milk the cows by hand. Elsie loved the closeness of the warm bodies against her face as she rhythmically stripped the milk from the udders. She never tired of the smoky sweet aroma of the foaming milk in the bucket. There was no hurry.
Sometimes they were asked why they hadn’t married and had families of their own but when your life is already complete there seemed no point. Many of the young men early on had gone to the war anyway and never returned. Elsie and Maude had each other.
Elsie’s attention was drawn back to the present when she heard Maude give her last quiet sigh. It sent a little ripple out into the room stirring the air so slightly. Elsie felt the hand slacken its grip. She reached over for the glass of water and the tablets.
Alternative Title:
In sickness and in health
Monday 20 July 2009
Trauma Transferred (Gordon)
Title: Trauma Transferred
Prompt: They had nothing more to say to each other.
The round table with carved legs was in the middle of a large room. Four chairs were neatly placed so each was exactly a few centimetres from the large red and cream floral table cloth. The cloth tumbled off the edges of the table with wavy edges. Kath walked into the room, deep in thought, and listened to herself say what a beautiful and elegant room. She noticed the pottery on the sideboard was 18th Century and placed to create a beautifully coordinated picture of affluence from an earlier age. She sat at the table and waited with a sadness that held her mind fixed on the events of exactly five days ago.
It was 5.30 pm on Saturday when for a moment Stan’s whole world of the past and the future flashed by in a split second. There was the other car hurtling straight for him. He remembered only the awful sound and the helplessness of the moment as his car slid sideways into the other. Then there was nothing.
Stan woke. Bent over him was Kath whose soft lips merely touched his forehead. His head throbbed with pain. He then felt pain in his legs and his arm. It was a jabbing pain that became unbearable with any movement. He noticed he was coming and going from real to unreal consciousness and was surrounded by curtains and pipes and electronic equipment that emitted a soft beep. His mind would stop and Kath would disappear.
The night was long and there were many fits of sleep and pain that sent his mid racing. Stan began to ask questions that seemed like they were fired from a rifle. How did it happen? Why am I alive? Where was Kath? What happened to the other driver? Who rescued me? What happened to my car? Was anyone else hurt? Will it happen again?
Kath knew, as the wheel chair came into the elegantly arranged room, that all was not well. There was a sense of foreboding even though Stan had recovered well. Their intimacy had faded and conversation had become sluggish. His mother, now in her senior years, pushed his wheel chair up to the table and carefully moved one of the chairs and then put it exactly in the corner, out of the way. It was placed with a precision that reflected years of care and attention to every detail and an awareness of the real satisfaction that comes from the exactness of completion. “I will leave you two to talk’, she says.
“Stan, how is your leg?” Kath asked in an attempt to break the ice. “Ok”, Stan replied. There was a silence. “What did the doctor say”; Kath then asked. ‘”Not much”, as he gave a grunt rather than a reply. Then there was a very long silence. Stan suddenly burst out: “I can’t stand this any more”. Again there was a long silence. “I’m leaving, I want to do something with my life”, he exclaimed. Kath sat in the longest silence of her life without emotion but crying and almost screaming inside, yet nothing came out. There was nothing to say and nothing that could stop the trauma being transferred. Kath cried, got up and walked away into the distance.
Gordon MacAulay, 20 July 2009
Titles:
My Silence
A Journey to Nothing
Nothingness
Prompt: They had nothing more to say to each other.
The round table with carved legs was in the middle of a large room. Four chairs were neatly placed so each was exactly a few centimetres from the large red and cream floral table cloth. The cloth tumbled off the edges of the table with wavy edges. Kath walked into the room, deep in thought, and listened to herself say what a beautiful and elegant room. She noticed the pottery on the sideboard was 18th Century and placed to create a beautifully coordinated picture of affluence from an earlier age. She sat at the table and waited with a sadness that held her mind fixed on the events of exactly five days ago.
It was 5.30 pm on Saturday when for a moment Stan’s whole world of the past and the future flashed by in a split second. There was the other car hurtling straight for him. He remembered only the awful sound and the helplessness of the moment as his car slid sideways into the other. Then there was nothing.
Stan woke. Bent over him was Kath whose soft lips merely touched his forehead. His head throbbed with pain. He then felt pain in his legs and his arm. It was a jabbing pain that became unbearable with any movement. He noticed he was coming and going from real to unreal consciousness and was surrounded by curtains and pipes and electronic equipment that emitted a soft beep. His mind would stop and Kath would disappear.
The night was long and there were many fits of sleep and pain that sent his mid racing. Stan began to ask questions that seemed like they were fired from a rifle. How did it happen? Why am I alive? Where was Kath? What happened to the other driver? Who rescued me? What happened to my car? Was anyone else hurt? Will it happen again?
Kath knew, as the wheel chair came into the elegantly arranged room, that all was not well. There was a sense of foreboding even though Stan had recovered well. Their intimacy had faded and conversation had become sluggish. His mother, now in her senior years, pushed his wheel chair up to the table and carefully moved one of the chairs and then put it exactly in the corner, out of the way. It was placed with a precision that reflected years of care and attention to every detail and an awareness of the real satisfaction that comes from the exactness of completion. “I will leave you two to talk’, she says.
“Stan, how is your leg?” Kath asked in an attempt to break the ice. “Ok”, Stan replied. There was a silence. “What did the doctor say”; Kath then asked. ‘”Not much”, as he gave a grunt rather than a reply. Then there was a very long silence. Stan suddenly burst out: “I can’t stand this any more”. Again there was a long silence. “I’m leaving, I want to do something with my life”, he exclaimed. Kath sat in the longest silence of her life without emotion but crying and almost screaming inside, yet nothing came out. There was nothing to say and nothing that could stop the trauma being transferred. Kath cried, got up and walked away into the distance.
Gordon MacAulay, 20 July 2009
Titles:
My Silence
A Journey to Nothing
Nothingness
Sunday 19 July 2009
Emma La Douce - by Rick
They had nothing to say to each other. Paris said all there was to say for them. Emma and Bert stood there at the top of the Eiffel Tower, transfixed by the beauty of Paris at dusk as it became The City of Light. Just to be here had been their lifetime dream for close to 50 years. Emma and Bert had come out of the theatre so many years ago after watching Irma La Douce. They had laughed themselves silly and were enjoying an A & W root beer float together when Emma sighed and said, “Let’s go to Paris someday.” to which Bert replied, “Ok but only if we’re married.” to which Emma replied, “Oh Bert, of course I’ll marry you.” which is how Bert proposed to Emma. But I’m starting to wander.
Their adventure begins in the networking cells of Freddy’s Fritters, one of the first fast food franchises to open up way back in the 50’s. Freddy’s Fritters was one of the success stories up there with McDonalds and KFC and Arthur had some time to kill before he knocked off for the day. A curious chap was Arthur, who loved nothing more than to tweek the computer systems of Freddy’s Fritters by day and surf the ‘net by night. Today he was curious as to who was the longest lasting employee of Freddy’s Fritters. Luckily for him, Freddy’s Fritters had computerised their entire company all the way back to it’s origins in 1959 and he soon found out that an Emma Burke, employee number 000201, had received her first pay cheque in June, 1959, and had received her latest deposit just 4 days ago. Considering that the average duration of an employee at Freddy’s Fritters was 16.3 months, this was beyond amazing. (He did some more research and found that the runner-up for longevity had “only” been with Freddy’s Fritters for 27 years, 2 months, 4 days.
Well Arthur thought this was amazing and sent out an email about his findings to some of his workmates and as the grapevine did its thing, the email found itself on the desk of Willard, one of the quality control inspectors for FF. Willard’s job was to anonymously visit a number of FF stores every month to see if the quality of product and service was up to FF standards. (It usually was). Turns out that this Emma Burke (now Emma Wertz) was working on one of the outlets that he visited that week. As he placed his order, he got into a casual conversation with Emma and found out that indeed she had been with FF since 1959, had met her husband Bert when he bought some donuts from her in 1962 and had pretty much been on staff ever since. Of course Willard couldn’t let on that he knew anything about her so he took his snack and left.
But he didn’t leave without an idea germinating. Something had to be done to acknowledge Emma for this service. Someone important had to know. So Willard sent off and email to the president of FF, to Frederick Garfield II, the son of the founder of FF who took over from Dad 10 years ago. Freddy 2, as he was known to his staff, sent back an email saying “Great idea. What do you have in mind?”
Well Willard had something great in mind. Emma had mentioned to Willard that she and Bert had always wanted to visit Paris, but that it didn’t look like their financial situation would ever allow for it. “Well don’t give up on that dream,” Willard said to her as he paid her for his order.
The emails flew back and forth between Willard and Freddy 2 and two weeks later Emma just about fainted as Freddy 2 and Bert came into her outlet along with some people from the newspapers and TV. Freddy 2 made a fine presentation to her with a plaque commemorating her 50 years, a cheque for $25,000 and a voucher for 2 for two weeks in Paris, France all expenses paid.
The security guard came up to Emma and Bert and informed them that the Tower was about to close and could they please make their way to the lift to exit.
Bert gave Emma’s hand an extra squeeze and as they headed towards the lifts said “And to think I almost went to McDonalds instead that day.”
Their adventure begins in the networking cells of Freddy’s Fritters, one of the first fast food franchises to open up way back in the 50’s. Freddy’s Fritters was one of the success stories up there with McDonalds and KFC and Arthur had some time to kill before he knocked off for the day. A curious chap was Arthur, who loved nothing more than to tweek the computer systems of Freddy’s Fritters by day and surf the ‘net by night. Today he was curious as to who was the longest lasting employee of Freddy’s Fritters. Luckily for him, Freddy’s Fritters had computerised their entire company all the way back to it’s origins in 1959 and he soon found out that an Emma Burke, employee number 000201, had received her first pay cheque in June, 1959, and had received her latest deposit just 4 days ago. Considering that the average duration of an employee at Freddy’s Fritters was 16.3 months, this was beyond amazing. (He did some more research and found that the runner-up for longevity had “only” been with Freddy’s Fritters for 27 years, 2 months, 4 days.
Well Arthur thought this was amazing and sent out an email about his findings to some of his workmates and as the grapevine did its thing, the email found itself on the desk of Willard, one of the quality control inspectors for FF. Willard’s job was to anonymously visit a number of FF stores every month to see if the quality of product and service was up to FF standards. (It usually was). Turns out that this Emma Burke (now Emma Wertz) was working on one of the outlets that he visited that week. As he placed his order, he got into a casual conversation with Emma and found out that indeed she had been with FF since 1959, had met her husband Bert when he bought some donuts from her in 1962 and had pretty much been on staff ever since. Of course Willard couldn’t let on that he knew anything about her so he took his snack and left.
But he didn’t leave without an idea germinating. Something had to be done to acknowledge Emma for this service. Someone important had to know. So Willard sent off and email to the president of FF, to Frederick Garfield II, the son of the founder of FF who took over from Dad 10 years ago. Freddy 2, as he was known to his staff, sent back an email saying “Great idea. What do you have in mind?”
Well Willard had something great in mind. Emma had mentioned to Willard that she and Bert had always wanted to visit Paris, but that it didn’t look like their financial situation would ever allow for it. “Well don’t give up on that dream,” Willard said to her as he paid her for his order.
The emails flew back and forth between Willard and Freddy 2 and two weeks later Emma just about fainted as Freddy 2 and Bert came into her outlet along with some people from the newspapers and TV. Freddy 2 made a fine presentation to her with a plaque commemorating her 50 years, a cheque for $25,000 and a voucher for 2 for two weeks in Paris, France all expenses paid.
The security guard came up to Emma and Bert and informed them that the Tower was about to close and could they please make their way to the lift to exit.
Bert gave Emma’s hand an extra squeeze and as they headed towards the lifts said “And to think I almost went to McDonalds instead that day.”
One Fine Day (by Heather)
They had nothing to say to each other.
It was 11:55 at night, and they had just been through the most incredible day of their lives. They lay together in the lacklustre hotel room, wordless with the fullness of the day behind them and the future ahead of them.
This is the story of what my mother did, exactly 67 years ago. It was July 14, 1942, and it was her 21st birthday.
It was also her wedding day, and early in the morning my father showed up in his ’39 Ford Deluxe (one of two cars in the whole district) to pick her up. He had come from his farm five miles away, with his sister Ellen who was to be the bridesmaid. In addition to my mother, he also picked up mum’s mother and her brother Jack, who was to be the best man at the wedding, and three of her sisters – Claire, June and Shirley. It was a warm and sunny day, allowing them to drive the 60 plus miles of country roads to the nearest city of Edmonton in less than two hours. When they got to town, Mum went with Dad across the river to the south side, to buy him a suit. There wasn’t time to hem it properly before the wedding, so the trousers were precipitously anchored for the rest of the day. And somehow along the way, they lost track of the bridesmaid and best man, who as a result had to walk (Ellen in tottery new shoes) the long trek across the High Level Bridge back to the Metropolitan United Church.
However, all managed to be assembled at 11:00 am for the wedding ceremony, a simple event taking place in the vestry of the church. The groom’s mother and father had driven in with a close friend who owned the other car in the district. The Reverend Thompson (who was to become a regular conductor of family weddings) presided. Mum’s Kodak Brownie box camera, a gift two or three years earlier from Dad, recorded the radiant faces.
After the wedding, the question was: where to for lunch? My grandfather graciously invited everyone to lunch at The Lower Deck, where the group fueled up for the rest of the day amidst showering the bride and groom with rice and confetti.
At this point, Mum and Dad temporarily abandoned the remainder of the wedding party and went to do some shopping. First they went to Woodward's and bought the only kitchen woodstove available in the city in wartime, a top of the line model which was wonderful but far too expensive, thus having to be bought on credit. Then they went across the street to Eaton's Department Store and bought their kitchen table and chairs, their dining room table and chairs, their living room furniture, their bed and vanity and chest of drawers, as well as numerous essentials for the kitchen. They arranged for its pick up by their local truck driver in a week or two.
The new home now provided for, they rejoined the rest of the travelers and drove the two hours back to the family home at Moon Lake. Mum’s sister Erma had been spending the day putting together a turkey feast for the wedding party, and guests assembled from around the countryside to honour the newlyweds. A wonderful time was had by all, again lovingly recorded by Mum’s Kodak.
After the party, Mum and Dad headed off for their honeymoon. However, there was a group of her mother’s friends who needed a ride, so they travelled many miles out of their way to deliver them home. Their destination was in the mountains near Jasper. They didn’t make it there that first night, choosing instead to end the fullest day anyone ever had at a little hotel in Evansburg, not far from where they dropped off their last guest.
We’ll leave them here, their souls so filled to the brim that there was truly nothing to say.
(The following day – when they careened the 15 or so miles of steep and treacherous mountain roads from the highway to Miette Hotsprings, in a car with no brakes, only to find the resort closed for the duration of the war – was probably also an exciting day, but that’s a story for another time.)
It was 11:55 at night, and they had just been through the most incredible day of their lives. They lay together in the lacklustre hotel room, wordless with the fullness of the day behind them and the future ahead of them.
This is the story of what my mother did, exactly 67 years ago. It was July 14, 1942, and it was her 21st birthday.
It was also her wedding day, and early in the morning my father showed up in his ’39 Ford Deluxe (one of two cars in the whole district) to pick her up. He had come from his farm five miles away, with his sister Ellen who was to be the bridesmaid. In addition to my mother, he also picked up mum’s mother and her brother Jack, who was to be the best man at the wedding, and three of her sisters – Claire, June and Shirley. It was a warm and sunny day, allowing them to drive the 60 plus miles of country roads to the nearest city of Edmonton in less than two hours. When they got to town, Mum went with Dad across the river to the south side, to buy him a suit. There wasn’t time to hem it properly before the wedding, so the trousers were precipitously anchored for the rest of the day. And somehow along the way, they lost track of the bridesmaid and best man, who as a result had to walk (Ellen in tottery new shoes) the long trek across the High Level Bridge back to the Metropolitan United Church.
However, all managed to be assembled at 11:00 am for the wedding ceremony, a simple event taking place in the vestry of the church. The groom’s mother and father had driven in with a close friend who owned the other car in the district. The Reverend Thompson (who was to become a regular conductor of family weddings) presided. Mum’s Kodak Brownie box camera, a gift two or three years earlier from Dad, recorded the radiant faces.
After the wedding, the question was: where to for lunch? My grandfather graciously invited everyone to lunch at The Lower Deck, where the group fueled up for the rest of the day amidst showering the bride and groom with rice and confetti.
At this point, Mum and Dad temporarily abandoned the remainder of the wedding party and went to do some shopping. First they went to Woodward's and bought the only kitchen woodstove available in the city in wartime, a top of the line model which was wonderful but far too expensive, thus having to be bought on credit. Then they went across the street to Eaton's Department Store and bought their kitchen table and chairs, their dining room table and chairs, their living room furniture, their bed and vanity and chest of drawers, as well as numerous essentials for the kitchen. They arranged for its pick up by their local truck driver in a week or two.
The new home now provided for, they rejoined the rest of the travelers and drove the two hours back to the family home at Moon Lake. Mum’s sister Erma had been spending the day putting together a turkey feast for the wedding party, and guests assembled from around the countryside to honour the newlyweds. A wonderful time was had by all, again lovingly recorded by Mum’s Kodak.
After the party, Mum and Dad headed off for their honeymoon. However, there was a group of her mother’s friends who needed a ride, so they travelled many miles out of their way to deliver them home. Their destination was in the mountains near Jasper. They didn’t make it there that first night, choosing instead to end the fullest day anyone ever had at a little hotel in Evansburg, not far from where they dropped off their last guest.
We’ll leave them here, their souls so filled to the brim that there was truly nothing to say.
(The following day – when they careened the 15 or so miles of steep and treacherous mountain roads from the highway to Miette Hotsprings, in a car with no brakes, only to find the resort closed for the duration of the war – was probably also an exciting day, but that’s a story for another time.)
Waiting - Sue
They had nothing to say to each other. David can hear himself breathing and the phone has a background static buzz but at the other end Ursula must be holding her breath. He knows that she knows who it is on the phone. He waits.
David has just arrived home from his office at the law firm. In the bedroom, wardrobe doors hang open also waiting. In the bathroom, the little yellow rubber duck is missing but, Oh God, her pink toothbrush is still next to his black one. Waiting. Photos have disappeared and the book shelves are half empty.
Now, he’s on his mobile, creeping around the lounge room, making sure he stays on the carpet. If he dares to speak, it will be in whispers. Back at the bathroom door he gets a glimpse of his face. Yuck. Red eyes and puffy dark circles remind him that he has had no sleep. After the 3 am phone call, then the 3 hour screaming match, he had to leave for the office.
“click”. Now he can’t even hear her not breathing.
“bleeeeeep bleeeeeeep” Now it’s engaged. He has no choice but to wait.
How come they have nothing to say to each other? After five years of being together surely there must be something one of them can say. But who starts? What imbecile thing can he say? What is he expecting her to say? He waits.
“Please Ursula, please call me” he yells at no-one.
The phone call was not planned. It jangled through the apartment echoing off the bare white walls and sleek timber floors. But it was not the first time he had been on the phone in the middle of the night, after all his company’s head office was in the US. Ursula had just seen red and she’d gone completely bezerk at the interruption to her sleep. Adding fuel to the fire, he had stayed on the phone for about 15 minutes. They were both wide awake and the slanging match was on for young and old. Who knows what the crux of the argument was, as is often the way major arguments don’t need to be based on anything serious. And now she’d left him just waiting and in agony.
The lap top “bleeps”. David trips over himself as he hurries to the PC. It’s from Ursula
“I can’t talk, I can barely type. But I can’t stand the vision of you pacing the floor and waiting or should I say hoping, that all of this will blow over. David it’s over. I need a life. I need a partner where I am involved, can contribute and where we can be as one. I am tired of being just a part of you. I want to be me. I want to find me. Usually I am the one waiting. Just waiting until it suits you to have me around. Now you know what waiting is like. Bloody painful isn’t it?”
David has just arrived home from his office at the law firm. In the bedroom, wardrobe doors hang open also waiting. In the bathroom, the little yellow rubber duck is missing but, Oh God, her pink toothbrush is still next to his black one. Waiting. Photos have disappeared and the book shelves are half empty.
Now, he’s on his mobile, creeping around the lounge room, making sure he stays on the carpet. If he dares to speak, it will be in whispers. Back at the bathroom door he gets a glimpse of his face. Yuck. Red eyes and puffy dark circles remind him that he has had no sleep. After the 3 am phone call, then the 3 hour screaming match, he had to leave for the office.
“click”. Now he can’t even hear her not breathing.
“bleeeeeep bleeeeeeep” Now it’s engaged. He has no choice but to wait.
How come they have nothing to say to each other? After five years of being together surely there must be something one of them can say. But who starts? What imbecile thing can he say? What is he expecting her to say? He waits.
“Please Ursula, please call me” he yells at no-one.
The phone call was not planned. It jangled through the apartment echoing off the bare white walls and sleek timber floors. But it was not the first time he had been on the phone in the middle of the night, after all his company’s head office was in the US. Ursula had just seen red and she’d gone completely bezerk at the interruption to her sleep. Adding fuel to the fire, he had stayed on the phone for about 15 minutes. They were both wide awake and the slanging match was on for young and old. Who knows what the crux of the argument was, as is often the way major arguments don’t need to be based on anything serious. And now she’d left him just waiting and in agony.
The lap top “bleeps”. David trips over himself as he hurries to the PC. It’s from Ursula
“I can’t talk, I can barely type. But I can’t stand the vision of you pacing the floor and waiting or should I say hoping, that all of this will blow over. David it’s over. I need a life. I need a partner where I am involved, can contribute and where we can be as one. I am tired of being just a part of you. I want to be me. I want to find me. Usually I am the one waiting. Just waiting until it suits you to have me around. Now you know what waiting is like. Bloody painful isn’t it?”
Sunday 12 July 2009
Baking the truth (Kerry)
“snagged interview @ dish 5 min walk from quay cant believe my luck on ferry now,” Julie twittered gaily. The ferry slipped through the sparkling waters of Sydney Harbour. Julie leaned over the side of the boat and began to psych herself up for the interview.
“feeling optimistic putting old life behind me no more centrelink queues need this one to pay for scooter.” Julie wanted to let her friends know how excited she was. This day held the possibility of a breakthrough. She walked quickly along the jetty as soon as the ferry docked and headed straight round to Dish.
“passing os terminal reminds me of going os myself just need the money lets see what I can do here to impress entering dish now.” Her heart was in her mouth but she planted a smile on her face and sallied forth.
“Hi. I’m Julie King. I’m here for the interview.” She introduced herself to the receptionist.
She was waved to a bench seat against the wall.
Julie got out her phone and scrambled a quick message.
“in the lion’s den waiting for brian this place is awesome smell the olives already & freshly baked bread.” She put her phone away.
“Julie. Good morning. Please come through.” A stooped, bespectacled man had opened the door beside Julie and beckoned her into his office. He motioned to her to sit down.
Brian settled himself in the chair opposite and smiled. She noted his slightly nonchalant appearance, bordering on the dishevelled, and reckoned she had a pushover here.
This guy’s no match for my interview skills, she chuckled to herself.
However, Brian’s opening question threw her completely.
“I see you’ve had extensive Cordon Bleu training, Julie. What was the most important lesson you learned there?”
It seemed like a simple question but the fact was Julie had only been to Cordon Bleu for a weekend workshop in pastry cooking. Surely she hadn’t exaggerated that on her resume. She was thrown for a few seconds while her mind raced.
“I would say I learned the importance of creativity in the kitchen,” she began boldly. “It’s possible for anyone to learn the techniques but it takes a special flair to go beyond the ordinary.”
Brian was pleased. His eyes had brightened. He sat up straight in his chair and pondered his next question while he shuffled the papers on the desk.
“And your time at La Scandala in Madrid? How did you deal with maintaining discipline in the kitchen?” he asked.
Julie froze. She’d never been to La Scandala. It was not for the want of trying. She’d applied for positions there several times. Had she written this resume in her dreams? This was obviously why she’d got the interview; anyone with La Scandala experience would be snapped up for sure.
The awful truth dawned on her.
He’s got someone else’s resume, she thought to herself. I can’t blow this. I’ve got to go along with it.
“That’s a very interesting question.”
She played for time.
“I found that the best way to maintain discipline was to allocate clear responsibilities for each member of staff so there was no culture of blame. We had weekly staff meetings as well to air any dissatisfaction. Communication was a high priority.”
Brian nodded. “Very interesting approach.”
The tension was taking its toll. Julie was perspiring profusely. She fidgeted in her chair.
“Would you please excuse me? I’m feeling a little nauseous,” she mumbled, and slipped out the door. The ladies’ was down the passage. Julie sat down heavily on the loo and got out her phone.
“feel sick can’t do this brian thinks i’m someone else it’s not my cv help me someone.”
A response came straightaway.
“you’ve got to tell him he’ll understand show him yr beautiful qualities be brave.”
What a relief. She could never make it work if Brian had hired her thinking she was someone else.
She walked quickly back into his office.
“feeling optimistic putting old life behind me no more centrelink queues need this one to pay for scooter.” Julie wanted to let her friends know how excited she was. This day held the possibility of a breakthrough. She walked quickly along the jetty as soon as the ferry docked and headed straight round to Dish.
“passing os terminal reminds me of going os myself just need the money lets see what I can do here to impress entering dish now.” Her heart was in her mouth but she planted a smile on her face and sallied forth.
“Hi. I’m Julie King. I’m here for the interview.” She introduced herself to the receptionist.
She was waved to a bench seat against the wall.
Julie got out her phone and scrambled a quick message.
“in the lion’s den waiting for brian this place is awesome smell the olives already & freshly baked bread.” She put her phone away.
“Julie. Good morning. Please come through.” A stooped, bespectacled man had opened the door beside Julie and beckoned her into his office. He motioned to her to sit down.
Brian settled himself in the chair opposite and smiled. She noted his slightly nonchalant appearance, bordering on the dishevelled, and reckoned she had a pushover here.
This guy’s no match for my interview skills, she chuckled to herself.
However, Brian’s opening question threw her completely.
“I see you’ve had extensive Cordon Bleu training, Julie. What was the most important lesson you learned there?”
It seemed like a simple question but the fact was Julie had only been to Cordon Bleu for a weekend workshop in pastry cooking. Surely she hadn’t exaggerated that on her resume. She was thrown for a few seconds while her mind raced.
“I would say I learned the importance of creativity in the kitchen,” she began boldly. “It’s possible for anyone to learn the techniques but it takes a special flair to go beyond the ordinary.”
Brian was pleased. His eyes had brightened. He sat up straight in his chair and pondered his next question while he shuffled the papers on the desk.
“And your time at La Scandala in Madrid? How did you deal with maintaining discipline in the kitchen?” he asked.
Julie froze. She’d never been to La Scandala. It was not for the want of trying. She’d applied for positions there several times. Had she written this resume in her dreams? This was obviously why she’d got the interview; anyone with La Scandala experience would be snapped up for sure.
The awful truth dawned on her.
He’s got someone else’s resume, she thought to herself. I can’t blow this. I’ve got to go along with it.
“That’s a very interesting question.”
She played for time.
“I found that the best way to maintain discipline was to allocate clear responsibilities for each member of staff so there was no culture of blame. We had weekly staff meetings as well to air any dissatisfaction. Communication was a high priority.”
Brian nodded. “Very interesting approach.”
The tension was taking its toll. Julie was perspiring profusely. She fidgeted in her chair.
“Would you please excuse me? I’m feeling a little nauseous,” she mumbled, and slipped out the door. The ladies’ was down the passage. Julie sat down heavily on the loo and got out her phone.
“feel sick can’t do this brian thinks i’m someone else it’s not my cv help me someone.”
A response came straightaway.
“you’ve got to tell him he’ll understand show him yr beautiful qualities be brave.”
What a relief. She could never make it work if Brian had hired her thinking she was someone else.
She walked quickly back into his office.
Saturday 11 July 2009
A Man of Many Words
“Mr. Baxter come in. Please have a seat. My name is John Hobbs and I’ve read over your resume a few times. Very impressive I must say.”
(Impressive? What makes him say that?) “Thank you Mr. Hobbs. I’m sure I have some skills that would make me the perfect choice for this job.”
“My staff corroborated some of the referees on your resume. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about some of the personal things you included.”
(Personal things? I didn’t put in any personal things.) “Certainly Mr. Hobbs. Ask away.”
“You say here that writing is one of your hobbies. Tell me a bit about that.”
(Writing? What’s he reading? Shit I don’t think he’s reading from my resume.) “Well I always loved reading since I was a little boy and I thought it would be fun to write as well. I like to take on science fiction and imagine what might our future look like. Or political thrillers. I haven’t had anything published though, so I can’t really show you anything.”
“Did you write your own resume?”
(Well he got that one right. But I’m not sure it’s the one he’s reading) “Sure did.”
“You also say that you like travelling. Tell me a bit about your time in Amsterdam.”
(Amsterdam? Christ now I know he’s not reading my resume. God what am I doing?) “Well the thing that I like most about the Dutch is how open they are. I know they receive a lot of criticism from some about their views say on drugs but I think a liberal approach to issues like that is better for society.”
“Did you sample the wares if you know what I mean?” Mr. Hobbs said with a bit of a conspiring wink.
(Damn, now he thinks I’m a druggie.) “Well let’s just say that I might have done a few things that I wouldn’t necessarily do at home. I’d rather leave it at that.”
“Ok, I’ll move on. You say here that you love playing football. Do you consider yourself a good team player?”
(Football? Yeah like when I was 7) “What I love about football is that it’s a team sport. Sure it’s great to be a star and I love to score a try as much as the next bloke, but the team comes first. I’ll be the first to pass the ball to a mate if it looks like he’s in the best position to score.” (Where do I come up with this stuff?)
“One more thing, something not related to your resume. Have you ever heard of Senator Percy Filmore?”
(Oh God, that pompous windbag.) “Certainly, who hasn’t. I’ve always thought he speaks forcefully to the issues.”
“Forcefully for sure.” Hobbs laughed, “but he’s a pompous windbag for my money.”
“Look Baxter, I’ll get right to the point. I’ve got some bad news and possible good news for you. First the bad news. You’re not really qualified for this job.”
“But what you might like is another job that I’m looking to fill and I think you’re perfect for it. I work directly for Senator Filmore, the windbag we were just talking about. I love him dearly but he does go on a bit. And that’s really what I see you qualified for.”
“He has a team of 3 writers, people who take the Senator’s words and put them into a form that is more, let’s just say pleasant for the average person to hear. One of the writers is retiring and we have a position for a new junior member for the team. I think you would be perfect for it. And it also pays $10,000 more than the other job. What do you think?”
(Me a writer? I think he’s nuts but what the hell.) “Mr Hobbs, I’ll admit it’s not what I came here for but if you think I’m qualified, I’ll go with your judgement. I accept.”
“Come with me Baxter. We’ll get you started on the paperwork. Oh and don’t worry about the interview. I was just as creative in making up the questions as you were in answering the. Which is just what I’ve been looking for. Someone who can answer a question without lying and yet not exactly be telling the truth either. What we call a spin doctor and I think you have the makings of a good one.”
“By the way, have you ever actually been to Amsterdam?”
(Impressive? What makes him say that?) “Thank you Mr. Hobbs. I’m sure I have some skills that would make me the perfect choice for this job.”
“My staff corroborated some of the referees on your resume. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions about some of the personal things you included.”
(Personal things? I didn’t put in any personal things.) “Certainly Mr. Hobbs. Ask away.”
“You say here that writing is one of your hobbies. Tell me a bit about that.”
(Writing? What’s he reading? Shit I don’t think he’s reading from my resume.) “Well I always loved reading since I was a little boy and I thought it would be fun to write as well. I like to take on science fiction and imagine what might our future look like. Or political thrillers. I haven’t had anything published though, so I can’t really show you anything.”
“Did you write your own resume?”
(Well he got that one right. But I’m not sure it’s the one he’s reading) “Sure did.”
“You also say that you like travelling. Tell me a bit about your time in Amsterdam.”
(Amsterdam? Christ now I know he’s not reading my resume. God what am I doing?) “Well the thing that I like most about the Dutch is how open they are. I know they receive a lot of criticism from some about their views say on drugs but I think a liberal approach to issues like that is better for society.”
“Did you sample the wares if you know what I mean?” Mr. Hobbs said with a bit of a conspiring wink.
(Damn, now he thinks I’m a druggie.) “Well let’s just say that I might have done a few things that I wouldn’t necessarily do at home. I’d rather leave it at that.”
“Ok, I’ll move on. You say here that you love playing football. Do you consider yourself a good team player?”
(Football? Yeah like when I was 7) “What I love about football is that it’s a team sport. Sure it’s great to be a star and I love to score a try as much as the next bloke, but the team comes first. I’ll be the first to pass the ball to a mate if it looks like he’s in the best position to score.” (Where do I come up with this stuff?)
“One more thing, something not related to your resume. Have you ever heard of Senator Percy Filmore?”
(Oh God, that pompous windbag.) “Certainly, who hasn’t. I’ve always thought he speaks forcefully to the issues.”
“Forcefully for sure.” Hobbs laughed, “but he’s a pompous windbag for my money.”
“Look Baxter, I’ll get right to the point. I’ve got some bad news and possible good news for you. First the bad news. You’re not really qualified for this job.”
“But what you might like is another job that I’m looking to fill and I think you’re perfect for it. I work directly for Senator Filmore, the windbag we were just talking about. I love him dearly but he does go on a bit. And that’s really what I see you qualified for.”
“He has a team of 3 writers, people who take the Senator’s words and put them into a form that is more, let’s just say pleasant for the average person to hear. One of the writers is retiring and we have a position for a new junior member for the team. I think you would be perfect for it. And it also pays $10,000 more than the other job. What do you think?”
(Me a writer? I think he’s nuts but what the hell.) “Mr Hobbs, I’ll admit it’s not what I came here for but if you think I’m qualified, I’ll go with your judgement. I accept.”
“Come with me Baxter. We’ll get you started on the paperwork. Oh and don’t worry about the interview. I was just as creative in making up the questions as you were in answering the. Which is just what I’ve been looking for. Someone who can answer a question without lying and yet not exactly be telling the truth either. What we call a spin doctor and I think you have the makings of a good one.”
“By the way, have you ever actually been to Amsterdam?”
The pluck of the draw (by Heather)
After six months of mailing resumes all over the city, you finally have a bite. Though under-qualified for the position, you attend the interview anyway because you desperately need work. As the boss starts to ask questions, you notice that he's not reading from your resume—it's someone else's. Instead of correcting him, you go with it. Write this interview.
Not that Jessica knew a lot about interviews, but in her humble opinion, the whole thing had been skewiff from the beginning.
It had started when she showed up at the front desk. She had announced herself, saying: “I’m here for the job interview for the marketing manager position.”
The receptionist had been doing that thing on the headphones where you never know who she’s speaking to. All the while looking at Jess, she’d kept up steady stream of conversation. She’d said, “I’ll put you through” to someone, and she’d said, “Pat Fraser’s here” to someone, and she’d said, “Good morning, Lewis Enterprises, Sarah speaking” to someone. At one point, she’d said “Do you mind getting me a glass of water from the cooler there?” to someone. She kept looking at Jess, who decided that as peculiar as it seemed, she was being asked to get the receptionist a drink. (This was where she felt as if she’d climbed into a foreign film with dodgy subtitles. Mind you, it helped to explain a little when she brought the water back, and the receptionist pointed to her belly which undoubtedly belonged to someone 9¼ months pregnant.)
Finally an older guy who introduced himself as Mel Lewis came to greet her, asking her to follow him to the interview room. He took the chair by the window, where the sun reflected off his shaved head as if it were a mirror. “Pat!” he exclaimed, and Jess wasn’t sure if it was an instruction or he was thinking of his dog or if she’d completely misheard him. So she’d just smiled and nodded sagely.
And now she was truly in a foreign film blur. Mr Lewis commented on her impressive resume, which she wasn’t sure she heard correctly. Then he made some weird remarks about China, asking how had she enjoyed it there, and commenting on what an adventurer she was. She went along with it, cracking a few jokes herself to show him she wasn’t afraid of his peculiar sense of humour. Having set the pattern, she gamely wise-cracked with him about managing the branding team at DuPont and similarly about monitoring R&D. After all, she was desperate for the job and if he wanted humour, she’d jump through the hoops.
However, she noticed fresh perspiration under her arms and began wishing she was anywhere but here. The responsibility for keeping up this insane banter was getting well beyond her. The foreign film was turning into a twilight-zone nightmare.
Actually, her stunned mullet mind reminded her, it had started off skewiff when she’d first found the ad on Job Search. The job was a long way out of her league but (a) she was truly desperate, and (b) you’ve got to take a risk or two every now and then, right? Her post-school year of experience as an accounts assistant (mostly phoning debtors, which she’d been very good at, and checking employee expenses, which she’d been mildly good at) had ended when the company had succumbed to the recession.
Her trance was interrupted when she took a moment to have a good look at the resume in front of Mr Lewis. She suddenly understood why the fonts and margins had seemed wrong, why the resume he was holding had seemed too thick. The top of the page read, “Resume for Pat Fraser”. Simply put, it wasn’t her resume and that all of a sudden clarified a lot of things. She stepped out of the nightmare into a painfully embarrassing real world.
In an attempt to slow the train gently, she said: “Well, I’m not sure I’m the person for this job.”
The train surged on. “Your experience tells a different story,” he said, looking at her closely.
And for the first time, she really looked at the man across from her. As well as the shining plate, he had intelligent eyes and a look on his face at least as confused as her own.
Damn, damn, damn, she thought. She stood up, ears burning and heart thumping agonisingly. “Look, Mr Lewis, I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I just now noticed that you’re looking at completely the wrong resume, I’m not Pat Fraser, and I know for a fact that I don’t have anything like the training or experience you need for the role. So I’ll just take this red face and head on out of here.”
Mr Lewis stood up. “Well, I’m glad to have that cleared up,” he stated dryly. “I have to admit that in all my time in business this was one of the strangest interviews I’ve ever been involved in. But hold on just a moment, please, I have an idea.”
He picked up the phone on a side table and pressed a key. A moment later he said, “Sarah, could you have a word with …” he cupped his hand over the receiver and wryly asked Jess her name, “…with Jessica here and see if she might be suitable as your replacement for the reception position. I’m thinking she has a courage that we might find useful here.”
…And that’s how, an hour later, Jess came to be filling in the New Employee Information form, as fulltime receptionist for Lewis Enterprises.
…And how, 2 years later, she came to be audaciously heading up its little marketing team.
…And how, 10 years later, she came to be breathing deeply while tapping her high heels into the boardroom at HSBC to present her first marketing director’s annual report.
Alternative titles:
The nightmare
The path of courage
Not that Jessica knew a lot about interviews, but in her humble opinion, the whole thing had been skewiff from the beginning.
It had started when she showed up at the front desk. She had announced herself, saying: “I’m here for the job interview for the marketing manager position.”
The receptionist had been doing that thing on the headphones where you never know who she’s speaking to. All the while looking at Jess, she’d kept up steady stream of conversation. She’d said, “I’ll put you through” to someone, and she’d said, “Pat Fraser’s here” to someone, and she’d said, “Good morning, Lewis Enterprises, Sarah speaking” to someone. At one point, she’d said “Do you mind getting me a glass of water from the cooler there?” to someone. She kept looking at Jess, who decided that as peculiar as it seemed, she was being asked to get the receptionist a drink. (This was where she felt as if she’d climbed into a foreign film with dodgy subtitles. Mind you, it helped to explain a little when she brought the water back, and the receptionist pointed to her belly which undoubtedly belonged to someone 9¼ months pregnant.)
Finally an older guy who introduced himself as Mel Lewis came to greet her, asking her to follow him to the interview room. He took the chair by the window, where the sun reflected off his shaved head as if it were a mirror. “Pat!” he exclaimed, and Jess wasn’t sure if it was an instruction or he was thinking of his dog or if she’d completely misheard him. So she’d just smiled and nodded sagely.
And now she was truly in a foreign film blur. Mr Lewis commented on her impressive resume, which she wasn’t sure she heard correctly. Then he made some weird remarks about China, asking how had she enjoyed it there, and commenting on what an adventurer she was. She went along with it, cracking a few jokes herself to show him she wasn’t afraid of his peculiar sense of humour. Having set the pattern, she gamely wise-cracked with him about managing the branding team at DuPont and similarly about monitoring R&D. After all, she was desperate for the job and if he wanted humour, she’d jump through the hoops.
However, she noticed fresh perspiration under her arms and began wishing she was anywhere but here. The responsibility for keeping up this insane banter was getting well beyond her. The foreign film was turning into a twilight-zone nightmare.
Actually, her stunned mullet mind reminded her, it had started off skewiff when she’d first found the ad on Job Search. The job was a long way out of her league but (a) she was truly desperate, and (b) you’ve got to take a risk or two every now and then, right? Her post-school year of experience as an accounts assistant (mostly phoning debtors, which she’d been very good at, and checking employee expenses, which she’d been mildly good at) had ended when the company had succumbed to the recession.
Her trance was interrupted when she took a moment to have a good look at the resume in front of Mr Lewis. She suddenly understood why the fonts and margins had seemed wrong, why the resume he was holding had seemed too thick. The top of the page read, “Resume for Pat Fraser”. Simply put, it wasn’t her resume and that all of a sudden clarified a lot of things. She stepped out of the nightmare into a painfully embarrassing real world.
In an attempt to slow the train gently, she said: “Well, I’m not sure I’m the person for this job.”
The train surged on. “Your experience tells a different story,” he said, looking at her closely.
And for the first time, she really looked at the man across from her. As well as the shining plate, he had intelligent eyes and a look on his face at least as confused as her own.
Damn, damn, damn, she thought. She stood up, ears burning and heart thumping agonisingly. “Look, Mr Lewis, I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I just now noticed that you’re looking at completely the wrong resume, I’m not Pat Fraser, and I know for a fact that I don’t have anything like the training or experience you need for the role. So I’ll just take this red face and head on out of here.”
Mr Lewis stood up. “Well, I’m glad to have that cleared up,” he stated dryly. “I have to admit that in all my time in business this was one of the strangest interviews I’ve ever been involved in. But hold on just a moment, please, I have an idea.”
He picked up the phone on a side table and pressed a key. A moment later he said, “Sarah, could you have a word with …” he cupped his hand over the receiver and wryly asked Jess her name, “…with Jessica here and see if she might be suitable as your replacement for the reception position. I’m thinking she has a courage that we might find useful here.”
…And that’s how, an hour later, Jess came to be filling in the New Employee Information form, as fulltime receptionist for Lewis Enterprises.
…And how, 2 years later, she came to be audaciously heading up its little marketing team.
…And how, 10 years later, she came to be breathing deeply while tapping her high heels into the boardroom at HSBC to present her first marketing director’s annual report.
Alternative titles:
The nightmare
The path of courage
Wednesday 1 July 2009
The Hills Are Alive
“This has to be as good as it gets”, I thought to myself. I had been hiking non-stop for over an hour, deep off the main tracks, and the Rockies had never looked better. Spring was late this year and the warmth was coming to the mountains with a bit of attitude. The sides of the hills were a Van Gogh collage of reds, yellows and purples and the trees were showing off their new greenery.
“God how I love this” I said out loud, not caring who might hear me and half hoping someone would be here to share all of this with me. I stopped to take a rest and sat myself on a large boulder that had a clear view of a small Alpine clearing just a few meters below me. The air was crisp and calm and I could hear everything, birds in the trees above, the sigh of the slight breeze through the pines and the soft rumbling of water running over rocks somewhere off to my left. As I sat there taking a deep drink from my canteen, a mother deer and 2 fawns came out from the bush down below and stopped to graze on the new grasses of the meadow. I was uphill and upwind from them and they didn’t sense my presence at all. I sat there enchanted by the innocence of it all and didn’t move a muscle as they moved slowly along.
Just as I thought this couldn’t get any better, a small bear cub came ambling out of the other side of the clearing towards the deer. The doe and the cub suddenly spotted each other from a few meters apart and I thought I must be watching some sort of National Geographic documentary. They both were startled by the other and the little cub sat up on its hind legs and let out a “woof” before falling over in a heap on its back. With that the doe and her babes turned and fled back into the bush.
I was splitting my sides laughing, when this chill came over me. It wasn’t that I thought maybe I was in danger. Something deeper and more primitive than that swept down my back and I knew I was in trouble.
Where there’s a bear cub there’s a mother bear and then I heard the sound of branches behind me cracking and a deep growl coming with it. I knew lots about what to do in a situation like this and got up very slowly and moved off to my right away from the cub and the noise behind me. As I turned uphill, I got my first glance of the mother, still skinny from her winter’s hibernation, cranky and angry, and coming towards me. I pulled my back pack off and took out a tin can of stones that was in it. Still moving slowly backwards, I shook the can with both hands and began shouting at the top of my lungs. This was supposed to be a good way to frighten off wild life. The bear obviously hadn’t been to that lecture. She kept advancing towards be with the hackles on her back raised.
Now I’ve always considered myself to be a devout greenie, but a greenie with his feet on the ground. I know that the mountains could be dangerous and that it might take more than a tin of rocks to fend off danger. In my backpack I also had a Colt 45, a handgun given to me by my grandfather that he had from back in the Second World War. I took it out and fired a shot over the head of the bear. The roar was deafening and it scared the shit out of me!
The bear didn’t bat an eye. Maybe she was deaf. As she got closer I aimed steadily right between her eyes. But I just couldn’t shoot her. There was this voice in my head saying “It’s her or us! Shoot you idiot!” But I couldn’t do it. I guess I was more greenie than I was common sense.
Then she charged and I tripped backwards over a rock. Suddenly there was this muzzle just inches away and I brought my backpack up in front of my face. She sunk her jaws into it and began shaking it back and forth. Time slowed down to a crawl and I could hear everything with a supernatural clarity. Maybe some people have their life flash before their eyes in a situation like this, but all I had was a sense of calm sadness. “So this is how it ends”,
Just as the bear ripped the bag from my hands, I heard this frightened bawling. The cub was still on its back wedged between 2 rocks and was panicking. As quickly as the bear had leapt at me, she turned and ran towards her cub. I didn’t wait to see what they would do next. I grabbed my gear and made like the deer.
By some miracle I didn’t have a scratch on me, not even a bump or bruise from falling over backwards. But a bit of my own innocence and naïveté was replaced with the knowledge that only comes from experience that the hills are also alive with the sound of danger.
“God how I love this” I said out loud, not caring who might hear me and half hoping someone would be here to share all of this with me. I stopped to take a rest and sat myself on a large boulder that had a clear view of a small Alpine clearing just a few meters below me. The air was crisp and calm and I could hear everything, birds in the trees above, the sigh of the slight breeze through the pines and the soft rumbling of water running over rocks somewhere off to my left. As I sat there taking a deep drink from my canteen, a mother deer and 2 fawns came out from the bush down below and stopped to graze on the new grasses of the meadow. I was uphill and upwind from them and they didn’t sense my presence at all. I sat there enchanted by the innocence of it all and didn’t move a muscle as they moved slowly along.
Just as I thought this couldn’t get any better, a small bear cub came ambling out of the other side of the clearing towards the deer. The doe and the cub suddenly spotted each other from a few meters apart and I thought I must be watching some sort of National Geographic documentary. They both were startled by the other and the little cub sat up on its hind legs and let out a “woof” before falling over in a heap on its back. With that the doe and her babes turned and fled back into the bush.
I was splitting my sides laughing, when this chill came over me. It wasn’t that I thought maybe I was in danger. Something deeper and more primitive than that swept down my back and I knew I was in trouble.
Where there’s a bear cub there’s a mother bear and then I heard the sound of branches behind me cracking and a deep growl coming with it. I knew lots about what to do in a situation like this and got up very slowly and moved off to my right away from the cub and the noise behind me. As I turned uphill, I got my first glance of the mother, still skinny from her winter’s hibernation, cranky and angry, and coming towards me. I pulled my back pack off and took out a tin can of stones that was in it. Still moving slowly backwards, I shook the can with both hands and began shouting at the top of my lungs. This was supposed to be a good way to frighten off wild life. The bear obviously hadn’t been to that lecture. She kept advancing towards be with the hackles on her back raised.
Now I’ve always considered myself to be a devout greenie, but a greenie with his feet on the ground. I know that the mountains could be dangerous and that it might take more than a tin of rocks to fend off danger. In my backpack I also had a Colt 45, a handgun given to me by my grandfather that he had from back in the Second World War. I took it out and fired a shot over the head of the bear. The roar was deafening and it scared the shit out of me!
The bear didn’t bat an eye. Maybe she was deaf. As she got closer I aimed steadily right between her eyes. But I just couldn’t shoot her. There was this voice in my head saying “It’s her or us! Shoot you idiot!” But I couldn’t do it. I guess I was more greenie than I was common sense.
Then she charged and I tripped backwards over a rock. Suddenly there was this muzzle just inches away and I brought my backpack up in front of my face. She sunk her jaws into it and began shaking it back and forth. Time slowed down to a crawl and I could hear everything with a supernatural clarity. Maybe some people have their life flash before their eyes in a situation like this, but all I had was a sense of calm sadness. “So this is how it ends”,
Just as the bear ripped the bag from my hands, I heard this frightened bawling. The cub was still on its back wedged between 2 rocks and was panicking. As quickly as the bear had leapt at me, she turned and ran towards her cub. I didn’t wait to see what they would do next. I grabbed my gear and made like the deer.
By some miracle I didn’t have a scratch on me, not even a bump or bruise from falling over backwards. But a bit of my own innocence and naïveté was replaced with the knowledge that only comes from experience that the hills are also alive with the sound of danger.
What I believe in (by Heather)
You risk your life in defending a belief you hold dearly. Tell the story of what happens.
I creep along the wall, feeling my way in the darkness by the texture of the rough stone wall. I know this neighbourhood well but I have never travelled it at night. I feel a strange freedom moving outside the house without my burka. I am wearing dark jeans, a dark sweater, dark running shoes. I feel invisible but in an entirely different way than I do inside the burka. It is an exhilarating experience.
My brother Farzeen is no more than 30 paces ahead of me. He is walking carefully but not as carefully as I am. He makes little scuffling noises and sometimes hums a snatch of a song I do not recognise.
We reach the town square. There is light here, from the fountain, and Farzeen carefully skirts the light. I become aware of another shape across the square. It is his friend Sohrab. The boys greet each other quietly, bumping fists in the Western fashion. They remove something from their pockets, and in the dim light I can see they are spray cans. I feel my breathing constrict. My brother and Sohrab intend to deface government property.
They move to the wall of the judiciary building near the fountain and begin to spray with their cans. I see the characters taking shape. Sohrab writes: “Mousavi fights election fraud.” My brother writes: “Neda Soltan lives on.” I know what else is to come, because I know my brother: “The rights of the people”.
The boys, absorbed in their defamation, do no see what I see. From the side door of the judiciary two soldiers with rifles have emerged and are walking quietly in the direction of the fountain. In a moment they will see my brother. They will swing their rifles to their shoulders, and in the absolute knowledge that they will be protected by the law, they will shoot my brother and Sohrab.
I scream, “RUN, Farzeen. RUN.”
The boys do not hesitate. Nor do I. In seconds, before the soldiers have a chance to understand what is happening and to raise their rifles, the boys have dropped the spray cans, crossed the square and darted into the shadows. Although my heart threatens to jump through my chest, I run like the wind, like a shadow. I am invisible. I do not run directly home. If I am followed, I will not draw attention to our house. I know my brother will do the same.
Long minutes later, Farzeen and I meet at the gate. We slip inside the courtyard. We hug. Farzeen whispers in my ear, “Souri, you crazy goose. You wonderful crazy goose. You could have been killed.”
We go carefully into the house. But all the care in the world does not prevent my father from standing there in the foyer as we glide in, arms folded across his chest and a look of silent fury on his face. We stop in front of him.
He asks what has gone on, and we tell him. He is unnervingly quiet.
My brother says, “Do not punish her. She saved my life tonight.”
My father turns to him and says, “Farzeen, why do you take this risk?”
Farzeen looks at him squarely in the eye, defiantly, and says, “For the love of freedom. For my freedom and my country’s.”
Father switches his inscrutable gaze to me. “Souri, why do you take these risks?”
I look him squarely in the eye and say, “For the love of my brother and the honour of my family.”
My father is silent a long time. But his face is soft now. He says, “My heart bursts with pride, and it bursts with concern. You both will learn from tonight. You are of no use to our country, or our family, if you are dead, or if you are in jail, or if you are in disgrace.”
He finally says, “The fruit does not fall far from the tree.” I look at my father anew, and he instructs us to go to bed.
Alternate titles:
A mark on the wall
For the love of
I creep along the wall, feeling my way in the darkness by the texture of the rough stone wall. I know this neighbourhood well but I have never travelled it at night. I feel a strange freedom moving outside the house without my burka. I am wearing dark jeans, a dark sweater, dark running shoes. I feel invisible but in an entirely different way than I do inside the burka. It is an exhilarating experience.
My brother Farzeen is no more than 30 paces ahead of me. He is walking carefully but not as carefully as I am. He makes little scuffling noises and sometimes hums a snatch of a song I do not recognise.
We reach the town square. There is light here, from the fountain, and Farzeen carefully skirts the light. I become aware of another shape across the square. It is his friend Sohrab. The boys greet each other quietly, bumping fists in the Western fashion. They remove something from their pockets, and in the dim light I can see they are spray cans. I feel my breathing constrict. My brother and Sohrab intend to deface government property.
They move to the wall of the judiciary building near the fountain and begin to spray with their cans. I see the characters taking shape. Sohrab writes: “Mousavi fights election fraud.” My brother writes: “Neda Soltan lives on.” I know what else is to come, because I know my brother: “The rights of the people”.
The boys, absorbed in their defamation, do no see what I see. From the side door of the judiciary two soldiers with rifles have emerged and are walking quietly in the direction of the fountain. In a moment they will see my brother. They will swing their rifles to their shoulders, and in the absolute knowledge that they will be protected by the law, they will shoot my brother and Sohrab.
I scream, “RUN, Farzeen. RUN.”
The boys do not hesitate. Nor do I. In seconds, before the soldiers have a chance to understand what is happening and to raise their rifles, the boys have dropped the spray cans, crossed the square and darted into the shadows. Although my heart threatens to jump through my chest, I run like the wind, like a shadow. I am invisible. I do not run directly home. If I am followed, I will not draw attention to our house. I know my brother will do the same.
Long minutes later, Farzeen and I meet at the gate. We slip inside the courtyard. We hug. Farzeen whispers in my ear, “Souri, you crazy goose. You wonderful crazy goose. You could have been killed.”
We go carefully into the house. But all the care in the world does not prevent my father from standing there in the foyer as we glide in, arms folded across his chest and a look of silent fury on his face. We stop in front of him.
He asks what has gone on, and we tell him. He is unnervingly quiet.
My brother says, “Do not punish her. She saved my life tonight.”
My father turns to him and says, “Farzeen, why do you take this risk?”
Farzeen looks at him squarely in the eye, defiantly, and says, “For the love of freedom. For my freedom and my country’s.”
Father switches his inscrutable gaze to me. “Souri, why do you take these risks?”
I look him squarely in the eye and say, “For the love of my brother and the honour of my family.”
My father is silent a long time. But his face is soft now. He says, “My heart bursts with pride, and it bursts with concern. You both will learn from tonight. You are of no use to our country, or our family, if you are dead, or if you are in jail, or if you are in disgrace.”
He finally says, “The fruit does not fall far from the tree.” I look at my father anew, and he instructs us to go to bed.
Alternate titles:
A mark on the wall
For the love of
To see her again (by Heather)
Begin your story with: “I thought I saw…”
I thought I saw her. I was on the 730 bus heading north, and I thought I saw her waiting at the stop lights at the corner of Parnell and West. My skin crawled a little, as it does when you see something you shouldn’t, but I breathed deeply a time or two and the feeling passed.
I went back to reading the National Geographic article on the baby mammoth they’d discovered buried in a mud flat. It was a sad sad story about how they’d figured out the baby mammoth had been sucked into a mud flow and abandoned by the rest of the herd. I could feel a tear welling so I thought about something else.
When I looked out the window a few minutes later, I thought I saw her again. This time she was coming out of the music store on Parnell. I instantly recognised the swish of her shoulder length dark hair, although the sunglasses she was wearing were new. I almost jumped off the bus, but it took off at that instant and I was forced to sit back in my seat.
This time my heart stayed in my throat for a long time. I took off my baseball cap and wiped my brow with it. I checked over my shoulder a time or two, which was silly because she was long out of sight.
I rolled up the National Geographic and drummed it against my knee. The woman in front of me looked back with some kind of mincy eye rolling thing, but I gave her a look that turned her smartly around again. However, I did stop the drumming; I didn‘t like the attention.
I was nearly home when I thought I saw her again. This time she was crossing the park, hurrying along with that easily recognisable stride of hers. I couldn’t remember whether she was wearing the same coat I’d seen on her a few minutes ago.
It really spooked me. I was probably imagining it, but to have seen her three times like that, well, it spooked me.
I got off the bus at the next stop and considered going back to the park to confront her. But all things considered that didn’t seem like such a good idea, so I hurried home down the path.
My heart was thumping something fierce. I rushed down the steps and threw my jacket at the hook by the front door. I suddenly realised I must have left the National Geographic on the bus and I felt a rush of fury with myself for that - it was disrespectful of the little mammoth as well as a waste of money.
But I quickly remembered her, and how unnerving it was to see her three times like that. My heart hammered again.
I walked quietly through the house to the back door, eased open the lock and slid outside. I crept over to where I could see the corner of the garden near the big old tree.
The slight mound was still there, apparently undisturbed. I’d planted some grass seeds there a few days ago, but nothing was growing yet.
-- Either that, or the soil had been carefully moved and put back again.
I decided I should check. I went to the garden shed and got the spade.
Alternate titles:
I thought I saw her
The spookiest thing
The ride home
I thought I saw her. I was on the 730 bus heading north, and I thought I saw her waiting at the stop lights at the corner of Parnell and West. My skin crawled a little, as it does when you see something you shouldn’t, but I breathed deeply a time or two and the feeling passed.
I went back to reading the National Geographic article on the baby mammoth they’d discovered buried in a mud flat. It was a sad sad story about how they’d figured out the baby mammoth had been sucked into a mud flow and abandoned by the rest of the herd. I could feel a tear welling so I thought about something else.
When I looked out the window a few minutes later, I thought I saw her again. This time she was coming out of the music store on Parnell. I instantly recognised the swish of her shoulder length dark hair, although the sunglasses she was wearing were new. I almost jumped off the bus, but it took off at that instant and I was forced to sit back in my seat.
This time my heart stayed in my throat for a long time. I took off my baseball cap and wiped my brow with it. I checked over my shoulder a time or two, which was silly because she was long out of sight.
I rolled up the National Geographic and drummed it against my knee. The woman in front of me looked back with some kind of mincy eye rolling thing, but I gave her a look that turned her smartly around again. However, I did stop the drumming; I didn‘t like the attention.
I was nearly home when I thought I saw her again. This time she was crossing the park, hurrying along with that easily recognisable stride of hers. I couldn’t remember whether she was wearing the same coat I’d seen on her a few minutes ago.
It really spooked me. I was probably imagining it, but to have seen her three times like that, well, it spooked me.
I got off the bus at the next stop and considered going back to the park to confront her. But all things considered that didn’t seem like such a good idea, so I hurried home down the path.
My heart was thumping something fierce. I rushed down the steps and threw my jacket at the hook by the front door. I suddenly realised I must have left the National Geographic on the bus and I felt a rush of fury with myself for that - it was disrespectful of the little mammoth as well as a waste of money.
But I quickly remembered her, and how unnerving it was to see her three times like that. My heart hammered again.
I walked quietly through the house to the back door, eased open the lock and slid outside. I crept over to where I could see the corner of the garden near the big old tree.
The slight mound was still there, apparently undisturbed. I’d planted some grass seeds there a few days ago, but nothing was growing yet.
-- Either that, or the soil had been carefully moved and put back again.
I decided I should check. I went to the garden shed and got the spade.
Alternate titles:
I thought I saw her
The spookiest thing
The ride home
Out of hiding (by Heather)
Write about a time you were hiding or in disguise.
“Em-i-lee. Em-i-LEE!”
The bellowing voice, roughened by years of alcohol abuse and slurred by the day’s drinking, brought Emily’s hands over her ears.
She crouched in the shadows under a shrub in the back garden, light from the house windows spilling around her. As soon as she had heard the truck in the driveway, she had dropped her book and scuttled out to the back garden. Mince apparently decided to go into hiding as well, as he cuddled up to her with his little terrier tail wagging. Mince was as familiar with the drill as Emily was; he’d been pounded on and kicked across the floor about as often as Emily had. And he was just as perplexed by Bill’s dual personalities as Emily was.
Emily regarded herself wryly. Here she was, top of her self-defence class, cowering under the acacia while Bill went on yet another rampage inside the house. It would be funny if it weren’t so scary.
She could hear crashing inside – probably books being pulled off the shelves, a sound guaranteed to bring her out of hiding and into the house in defence of her possessions and her lifestyle. After six years, they had a well-established pattern. Bill would get drunk and give himself permission to do whatever, whatever, he felt like. Emily would try to talk him down, copping whatever came her way in the process. And Mince would mediate in a confused frenzy between them, taking the knocks every good umpire can expect from time to time.
She scratched absently behind his ear, took a deep breath and reviewed her resolve. For six months now she had been taking classes twice a week. Self-defence classes. Actually, as Sam had told them on the first night, they were really street fighting classes. If you no kidding wanted to protect yourself, you fought in whatever way you needed to, and you took the offence when you needed to. And now every week for six months she had learned fight techniques in a Tuesday class and gone to practice them one-on-one with Sam on Thursdays. She had practiced at home in front of the mirror. She had practiced on Mince (in the friendliest of ways) to his ecstatic surprise.
Emily’s heart hammered with the usual fear, and with something else, a steely something that she’d experienced a few times in the classes when she bested an opponent. Something that whispered that her days of hiding in the garden were over.
“Mince, stay here. Stay, boy,” she murmured, and brought herself to standing. She breathed deeply and flexed as she had been taught to do. She was ready.
She walked in.
Bill stopped mid-swipe and looked at her in some surprise.
“Where were you?” he growled. He did a double-take. “Whatdya do with your hair? You cut your hair?” he repeated, accusingly, threateningly.
Emily was thrown for a second – in the rush of adrenalin she’d forgotten the severe bob she’d had done at the hairdresser’s this afternoon. She’d known that Bill was off drinking, and she knew his favourite handle on her was her long ponytail. The fear upped a notch, and so did the steely something.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarled.
He swung toward her.
Moments later it was over. Bill lay sprawled on the floor next to the kitchen.
Emily leaned against the door frame, panting lightly. The moves she’d executed still tingled in her muscles. Slash to windpipe. Stomp on toes. Kick to groin. Smash to temple. A satisfied sound escaped her.
Okay. Tie him up or get out fast?
She chose the latter. Get out; worry later, grieve later, plan later.
She snatched up her handbag and swept a pile of CDs off the shelf into it. She grabbed the big old album of family photos and her Best Player 2004 soccer trophy.
Bill groaned and stirred slightly.
She found her keys in the pocket of her handbag, pausing in the doorway to say goodbye to a handful of treasured possessions and a partnership that had been inert for a long time.
“Mince!” she called. “C’mon boy, get in the car.”
The little terrier pounded toward her out of the nearby bush and ecstatically jumped in. Another adventure! Yes!!!
Emily laughed shakily. Worry, grieve, plan later. If at all.
She punched the air.
She slid behind the wheel and slammed the car door shut. Gravel skittered as she reversed out the driveway and hit the road.
“Em-i-lee. Em-i-LEE!”
The bellowing voice, roughened by years of alcohol abuse and slurred by the day’s drinking, brought Emily’s hands over her ears.
She crouched in the shadows under a shrub in the back garden, light from the house windows spilling around her. As soon as she had heard the truck in the driveway, she had dropped her book and scuttled out to the back garden. Mince apparently decided to go into hiding as well, as he cuddled up to her with his little terrier tail wagging. Mince was as familiar with the drill as Emily was; he’d been pounded on and kicked across the floor about as often as Emily had. And he was just as perplexed by Bill’s dual personalities as Emily was.
Emily regarded herself wryly. Here she was, top of her self-defence class, cowering under the acacia while Bill went on yet another rampage inside the house. It would be funny if it weren’t so scary.
She could hear crashing inside – probably books being pulled off the shelves, a sound guaranteed to bring her out of hiding and into the house in defence of her possessions and her lifestyle. After six years, they had a well-established pattern. Bill would get drunk and give himself permission to do whatever, whatever, he felt like. Emily would try to talk him down, copping whatever came her way in the process. And Mince would mediate in a confused frenzy between them, taking the knocks every good umpire can expect from time to time.
She scratched absently behind his ear, took a deep breath and reviewed her resolve. For six months now she had been taking classes twice a week. Self-defence classes. Actually, as Sam had told them on the first night, they were really street fighting classes. If you no kidding wanted to protect yourself, you fought in whatever way you needed to, and you took the offence when you needed to. And now every week for six months she had learned fight techniques in a Tuesday class and gone to practice them one-on-one with Sam on Thursdays. She had practiced at home in front of the mirror. She had practiced on Mince (in the friendliest of ways) to his ecstatic surprise.
Emily’s heart hammered with the usual fear, and with something else, a steely something that she’d experienced a few times in the classes when she bested an opponent. Something that whispered that her days of hiding in the garden were over.
“Mince, stay here. Stay, boy,” she murmured, and brought herself to standing. She breathed deeply and flexed as she had been taught to do. She was ready.
She walked in.
Bill stopped mid-swipe and looked at her in some surprise.
“Where were you?” he growled. He did a double-take. “Whatdya do with your hair? You cut your hair?” he repeated, accusingly, threateningly.
Emily was thrown for a second – in the rush of adrenalin she’d forgotten the severe bob she’d had done at the hairdresser’s this afternoon. She’d known that Bill was off drinking, and she knew his favourite handle on her was her long ponytail. The fear upped a notch, and so did the steely something.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarled.
He swung toward her.
Moments later it was over. Bill lay sprawled on the floor next to the kitchen.
Emily leaned against the door frame, panting lightly. The moves she’d executed still tingled in her muscles. Slash to windpipe. Stomp on toes. Kick to groin. Smash to temple. A satisfied sound escaped her.
Okay. Tie him up or get out fast?
She chose the latter. Get out; worry later, grieve later, plan later.
She snatched up her handbag and swept a pile of CDs off the shelf into it. She grabbed the big old album of family photos and her Best Player 2004 soccer trophy.
Bill groaned and stirred slightly.
She found her keys in the pocket of her handbag, pausing in the doorway to say goodbye to a handful of treasured possessions and a partnership that had been inert for a long time.
“Mince!” she called. “C’mon boy, get in the car.”
The little terrier pounded toward her out of the nearby bush and ecstatically jumped in. Another adventure! Yes!!!
Emily laughed shakily. Worry, grieve, plan later. If at all.
She punched the air.
She slid behind the wheel and slammed the car door shut. Gravel skittered as she reversed out the driveway and hit the road.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)