109. Stake-out

Slouched in the driver’s seat of his nondescript ’92 Swift, Harry kept an eye on the suspects, a smirk of disbelief flickering across his sallow face. Gingerly, he pressed the heel of his palm to his distended belly. That Chicko Roll for breakfast was playing merry hell with his internals. He wound the rear windows down an inch to relieve the stench, reaching into the glove-box for another antacid.

There was a doubt niggling him that was hard to shift, an aside from the client to his legman, Davey. Now, Davey was not the sharpest tool in the shed, and subtlety was foreign to him, so he often blew things out of all proportion. Harry harboured a suspicion that they were being set up. He cast his mind back to that initial interview, trying to free-associate with this likely looking bunch.

That was it. Why hadn’t he twigged before this!

108. Tidings of great joy

Draft 1 (169 words)

Carried on the invisible forces of wind and tide, the salt sweeps up the dunes and across the battered Swamp Banksias and the wizened acacias. Swathes of sodden sand bare its glossy nakedness to the momentarily receding wave. Drier sand patches intersperse, strained through muslin until blanched. Periwinkles litter the slithery sand, waiting for the tumbling waves to return them to the protection of the seething breakers. Moment by moment, the waves become greedier and tentacles reach up the beach, hungrily devouring all in its path. Weed, stone, wood and shell alike are in the target zone.

Further up the beach, before the line of dune grasses, where the levelling tide does not reach, where the pounding waves do not tumble, the sand is light and dry, dented by myriad footmarks. The scalloped edge of foamy wave tosses a tangle of olive green, leathery sea-weed up the beach where it dries slowly in the sun, gradually releasing its hold on life.

A microcosm of time between life and death.

Draft 2

Carried on insistent, invisible forces of wind and tide,
salt air sweeps over a crescent of ancient coast
wizening further stumpy banksias and battered acacias.
Pockets of sodden sand bare a glossy nakedness
to the momentarily receding ocean’s anger.
Drier patches pant, strained through muslin,
a myriad bubbling nostrils.

Periwinkles litter the slithery sand,
beseeching searching waves to return them
to deeper, protective channels.
Momentarily, waves become greedier,
tentacles reach high up the smooth beach,
hungrily devouring all in their domain,
glass, grit, stone, wood and shell alike.

Further up the beach, before the line of dune grasses,
where the levelling tide does not reach,
where the pounding waves do not tumble,
the sand is light and dry, pocked by many footprints.
A scalloped edge of foam once tossed
Tangled sinews of olive, leathery sea-weed,
Which wither now, slowly, releasing all hold.

Straddling life, ancient coast relinquishes through time.

107. At the foot of an old, old wharf

Draft 1

Belayed on four cleats, locked in place on each with a half hitch, ‘Toot’ is secure in the last pod of the safe haven, away from the buffeting swell whipped up by the imminent gales from the low over southern Queensland. The seaward side of the breakwater is no place for a vessel this size, under those conditions. Her skipper was taking no chances this time, the damage in the big blow of ’07 lodged permanently in his psyche.

All ‘round the marina, skippers are scurrying to secure vessels, adding ballast where necessary, to ride out the king tide expected in the early hours. A string of tinnies is being loaded into rack storage which provides a measure of wind break along the eastern margins of the marina, stretching from the warning beacon on Johnston Point to the dense string of Norfolk Pines that ring Horseshoe Bay.

All appeared ready.
________________________________________________________________________

Draft 2

‘Toot’ is secured in the last pod of the safe haven. She is belayed on four cleats, locked in place on each with a half hitch. Gales from the depression over southern Queensland are whipping up buffeting swells. The seaward side of the breakwater is no place for a vessel this size. She suffered massive damage in the big blow of ’07, and insurance won’t cover her a second time around.

Throughout the marina, vessels are being secured, ballast added where necessary, to ride out the king tide expected in the early hours. A flotilla of runabouts is loaded into rack storage. This massive dry berth provides a measure of wind break along the eastern margins of the marina. The state-of-the-art storage stretches from the warning beacon on Johnston Point to the dense string of Norfolk Pines that ring Horseshoe Bay.

All hatches are battened. They await the impending storm.
___________________________________________________________________________

Draft 3

‘Toot’ is secured.

She is belayed on four cleats, each locked in place with a half hitch. She is moored in the backmost pod. The seaward side of the breakwater is no place for a vessel this size.

A severe depression lies over the southern coast of Queensland. Gales are whipping up buffeting swells. ‘Toot’ suffered massive damage in the big blow of ’07. Her insurance won’t be sufficient a second time around.

Throughout the marina, vessels are being secured. Ballast is added to ride out the king tide expected in the early hours. A flotilla of runabouts is loaded into rack storage.

This three storey dry berth provides a measure of wind break along the eastern margin of the harbour. The granite breakwater stretches from the warning beacon on Johnston Point to the dense string of Norfolk Pines that ring Horseshoe Bay.

All hatches are battened. Bring it on.
____________________________________________________________________________

Thanks to Hardie Gramatky the writer of the 'Little Toot' Golden Book for the title of this Riff.

A member of the Weekend Writer's Retreat

106. Lost in thought

Having tramped all morning around the gardens, Ronald and Evelyn rested upon the bench until their buzzing soles quieted, and their energies were restored.

They first met in the gardens forty-six years ago, on the Band Lawn near the Venus fountain, a view that moves them to silence to this day. Back then, when the world was mostly monotone, a detachment of the Navy Fleet band honed its skills on Band Lawn every Sunday morning, and those Sydneysiders in the know, jockeyed for the perfect lounging position. Young Ronald trained in from Burwood every other Sunday, and one morning his eye sought out Evelyn listening beneath a rock overhang, reading something by Austen, or maybe one of the Brontes. He started attending weekly, until he summoned the courage to approach, and engage her in conversation.

Lost in reverie, Evelyn paid scant attention as the train clattered down the cobbled pathway.

105. One foot after the other

The days were like this now, filled with an unnamed dread that weighed upon her shoulders, sowing black bile in the pit of her stomach. Grace struggled to comprehend the lack of control since the beginning of semester. She had learnt to pace her studies, to juggle balls as her brother put it.

Each evening, after her final class, she enjoyed the solitary walk to Central, watching the hordes of commuters as they bustled their way home, enjoying the mental unwind with each step, digesting the sounds and the smells of a city so very different from Shanghai. One more semester and she would return to her homeland, to the house of her grandparents, to the future the family had mapped out five years ago. An accountant in the family would provide stability for generations.

A smile swathed her face as she spied Andrew coming down the concourse toward her.

104. A run of bricks

The raggle-taggle retriever bounds beside number 4a, then clatters down the adjacent lane, trailing lickings of affection, the disembodied voice of his handler echoing more distant still as she continues her late afternoon jog unperturbed. Presenting a firm, no nonsense face to the world, the door and wall together brook no intruders, their manicured appearance announcing that these premises are occupied. Not a brick is disjoint, not a hinge dare squeak.

The lime philodendron, made translucent by the angled rays of the sun, suckles over the adjacent trellis, tentatively reaching out in its endeavour to suckle onto the mortar between the runs, to drain the clay of any residual moisture after its century or more of sentry duty. Discarded leaves, aged and dry, flutter down onto the cobbles, mingling with the bottle tops and cigarette butts, and empty packets of Smith’s crisps.

The evening air quietly draws down the moisture.

103. Laundry day

The atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a knife, intense and discomforting. Janus was disgruntled, Elena was sullen, and they washed their dirty laundry in public. Who is to know what the underlying issues are in relationships. All that becomes apparent is the series of straws. And yet, here we had what appeared to be a long-serving camel’s back.

There are domestics woven from deeply held passions, passions which under pressure erupt into fisticuffs, expletives and much frothing at the mouth. But the passion is apparent. Other domestics are a sad grinding down and wearing away of the very fabric of the union, and erosion like, all that remains is the fissure. Here, the beige silences were longer than the hisses through tightly pressed lips.

Eventually, a bus appeared upon the wavering horizon. Elena stepped off in the direction of David Jones and, without looking back, crossed the street.

102. A family concern

Standing opposite the railway station, this small store was erected in the year of Federation, a decade after the coming of the rail line. With the land subdivision fanning out from the station, a newsagency was an inspired choice. As Arts-and-Craft style houses arose rapidly on the undulating paddocks, in moved the doctors, and the lawyers, and the business men, all out to solidify family reputation.

In the early 20th century in Sydney, there were two morning papers, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Daily Telegraph, and two afternoon papers, The Daily Mirror and the Sun. This was the major role of the newsagent – to sell newspapers. Together with his extended family, he worked long hours selling items with limited mark-up. To broaden his appeal, carried the first editions of the new ‘women’s’ magazines, The Women’s Weekly and Woman’s Day.

Domestic gambling was a scourge still to invade the suburbs.

101. Saturday in the park with Pa

High pitched squeals resounded through the gardens well before the small bodies scuttled across the clearing to disappear among the bushes. Chloe lent back against Pa’s knees as he sat to catch his breath on the bench beside the footpath. She giggled as she followed the hive of activity unfold before her. First James, and then Angus would run toward her, hand out ready for a high five, before pivoting and dashing back the opposite way. The laughter reached a crescendo as the boys passed in the clearing. Pa shook his head at the joyousness of it all.

He reached over into his backpack and slid out the thermos of tea that Shelia had packed for him. She knew he would need a cuppa mid-morning. She hadn’t lived with him for forty years without knowing that he frequently bit off more than he could chew, especially with this lively lot.

100. The El Rocco Room

Although he walked this way every day, Percy had trouble negotiating the incline down Brougham Lane. The handles of the plastic bags were cutting into his palms, but he was buggered if he could remember where he had stashed Vinnie’s hose pieces. Vinnie was okay, considering he was an ‘eye-tie’.

Percy clocked the two china men sitting on the steps shovelling in their foul food. He was wary every time he came this way. He stopped for a breather and to change hands. Those council buggers had not emptied the hotel wheelie bins properly and, although he gave the hotel bloke a piece of his mind, bins had not been hosed out either.

Geez, he wished that Beryl from number 197 would slow down. Then he could ask if she wanted to catch the early show at the El Rocco Room with him. A bloke still has needs, yer know.

A member of the Weekend Writer's Retreat

99. Above her station

As Denise twirled the diamond on her left hand, her hips rocked hypnotically from side to side, her face disssolving into a caricature of dissatisfaction. Keith knew that the first word from her mouth would be ‘skanky’. He scanned the menu over her shoulder, being assailed by Chanel’s ‘Allure’ which had been the must-have from the ground floor of David Jones’ Elizabeth Street store yesterday.

‘Aw, real skanky like. Nah, we deserve better.’

Keith’s enthusiasm plummeted and already he could do with an ice-cold beer even though they were hunting for a suitable joint for breakfast. He took a long soothing drag and, picking a stray glob of tobacco from his tongue, pointed to the Big Breakfast in the top right hand corner.

‘That looks okay. S’got beans and bacon as well as eggs. All me fav’rites.’

Denise raised herself to her full height.

‘No, thank you. We’ll keep looking.’

98. Struggle street

Walking the two blocks to the IGA on the corner of Darlinghurst Road, had been a daily ritual for Doris since she fled to The Cross in the early ‘50s. She cared not whether the shingle said IGA, Permewans or Franklins, because the small grocery store was located next to the TAB. Doris had picked up a few minor vices over the years, the gee-gees, smoking and a good gossip.

She loved this walk through the grimy streets even though homeless men littered doorways and set up camps in bus shelters. Live and let live was her motto. She was well known in her neighbourhood after a life-time of walking the streets. She “retired” when she turned 65, got her Senior’s Card and her pension and the nice people down at the Housing Commission allowed her to stay in her one-bedder just off Ward Street.

For Doris, life was sweet.

A member of the Theme Thursday community

97. The fruits of your labours

Laura knew not to read too much into the body language, the cold shoulder, the absent-mindedness, the clipped responses. These were the stresses speaking. Given time, Clive would emerge from this trial the generous, loving human being that she believed him to be. Laura knew her own mother harrumphed at her steady faith, but mothers can be so black-and-white.

Clive came from a tight-knit family which had always been immersed in business, in noise and dust and engineering. He joined the factory on Botany Road at eighteen more to please his parents, than any personal commitment.

At the age of 48, he met Laura and life changed for him, overnight. She enabled him to see beyond the obvious, helped him to clarify and to respond. With her empathy, he started to hear other life songs. That is when he discovered the viola.

Then, in his fiftieth year, Alicia was born.

96. Time flies

Her skin glowed in the mid-morning light as she listened to his opinion of the bracket of Gregorian chant. She had bumped into Isaac the evening before on the football oval as she put the finishing touches to the performance of the local junior SATB choir. They had not seen each other since their university days where Chloe was whizzing through a music education degree and Isaac was struggling with his journalism studies. Well, struggling to fit the academic requirements into a life already overflowing. Chloe chuckled at the memory. He was striking even then, just too unfocussed.

She watched the laughter lines that crinkled like crow’s feet from the corner of his eyes. She liked the way he laughed with his eyes – it transformed his face. Being clean shaven complemented the receding hair-line.

‘The bass baritone could have been used to fuller effect ...’

Chloe heard the waiting silence.

95. Dulce et decorum est

All three had appreciated the Memorial Service this time round, the words of Canon Winder echoing a truth that appeared consistent through the years since those horror days of Long Tan in ‘66. With the passage of time, the raw passion had eased being replaced with a dull acceptance. Their father had been blown to pieces. End of story. Let’s join together in song, with ‘Immortal Invisible’.

After the service each year, they adjourned to Le Grand Café within the Alliance Francaise in Clarence Street. This ritual commenced as a fitting way to comprehend the revelations of their father’s Viet-Franco children which they were told upon the death of their mother in early ’82.

They blinked as they returned into the glare of a Sydney summer. ‘Sweet and fitting’ would be a good description, one that each sibling could clasp, even over the great chasm between loss, discovery and remembrance.

94. The sub-woofer duub-duub

He chose his own New York cut from the refrigeration unit, and piled a plate high with rock melon and mini-beets. He had never been a greens man, claiming that if that had been God’s will, he would have been given long ears and thumpers. He sliced the jacket potatoes, and layered the slash with sour cream, chives and mustard. English, of course.

As he turned the steak - ensuring grill marks on a medium-rare steak requires concentration and timing to ensure it retains juicy tenderness - his spare hand stuttered a rapid rattle, a ‘Dubstep’ 4:4 rhythm against his left hip, followed by a segue into ‘Breaks’ accompanied by a guttural duub-duub. In less time than it takes to spin one track of vinyl, he had the steak in the tongs and was heading back to the table with a broad grin on his face.

‘Let’s eat! I’m starving.’

93. Till they was like to drop

Walking along George Street, Bill and Geraldine were all ears. They had trained down from ‘Bungaree’ on the stock-route between Merriwa and Cassilis, finding the YHA on Cumberland Street with much difficulty even though the streets in The Rocks were lit up like midday. So much for a small footprint; what was good enough for city slickers should be good enough for the bloomin’ yokels up Cassilis way.

Gerry was agog as she trod the cobblestoned laneways. She persevered after turning her ankle in Greenway Lane trying to avoid the ruts gouged by the steel-rims of the drays. She had been keen to climb the Argyle Steps to the deck of the bridge itself.

Bill had toddled along beside her, quite taken by her enthusiasm. Now, however, it was his turn to play tour guide and he was headed to ‘The Fortune of War’, Sydney’s oldest, continuously licensed public house.

With acknowledgement to A.B. Paterson’s ‘The Man from Ironbark’

92. The best job in the world

Jason chuckled as he thought of his mother’s ‘eyes in the back of her head’ expression. His spirits burbled along as he used those eyes to imagine the scene around him, all the while coiling the hoses used to flush out the bilges of the nine First Fleet class ferries and the two Lady class ferries. The day was as fine an autumn day as Sydney could turn on, with a light nor-easter heading in across the cove.

This was Jason’s fifth year working maintenance shift on the timber wharves jutting out from the Quay into Sydney Cove. Last month, after much harassment from his mother, he submitted an application for deckhand. Yesterday, word came down that he had an interview for Friday week. Only his second ever job interview, and already he could hardly breathe.

Deckhand on the green and gold First Fleeters. He grinned from ear to ear.

91. The back alley

The stench of stale beer invaded her nostrils, as Michelle stood staring at the text on the screen. Her heart flip-flopped within her chest, and her hand shook as she tried to decode the poorly spelt message. She understood before she read it what it was going to say, and did not want to know further.

‘It’s over, Shel. The last two months have been hell. I won’t take the push-pull anymore.’

Five years brought to an end, just like that, with a 10c text message. An ironic grunt hissed the air from between her lips, her brain working ten to the dozen with schemes and excuses. Shel’s right eye ticked as the blood flow throbbed in the base of her brain. Shoving the mobile into her pocket, she ran her hand through her hair, trying to ease the panic welling within her.

She’d show him. She’d bloody show him.

90. Dreamers

Easing herself onto the oak bench, Betty delved into the goodies she bought from Coles in Hunter Street. This was a singular pleasure she kept from Eleanor. Sisters can be so insistent upon sharing everything. She nibbled the quince paste, the water crackers and the King Island Double Brie, washing it down with the spring water that accompanied her everywhere.

Beside the sandstone wall behind her, another Elizabeth had stood two hundred years earlier, at her husband’s side. Lachlan had helped her over the stile entrance at the top of the bent path, and escorted her to this vantage point. Together they dreamed of English garden demesnes, loop roads, and horse-drawn carriages at a smart clip-clop, heading towards the harbour glinting through the wooded slope.

Finishing her repast, Betty cleared the remaining crumbs with her moistened finger, and leant back against the bench, watching the yachts on the harbour below.

89. On wings of song

His clear lyric voice floated effortlessly on the evening air. Marcus liked it out here in the gardens, away from the ebb and flow of the classroom. This was his classroom, this was where he was at his most clear-headed and creative. Frequently a bar ahead of him, Janie had already adjusted the chord at the end of the first phrase to lend a more contemplative air to the opening theme.

Marcus was struggling with a direction, being unable to come to grips with the drudgery of mathematics and the rote learning of chemistry, music was the one element in his life that captured his imagination. However, even this held a sting in the tail. He abhorred the restraints and compromises demanded of group music, and was debased by the inanity of gigs like Poetry Slams.

It was here, amongst quavers and crotchets and time signatures, that his soul soared.

88. The evening muse

Margie scrabbled around in her khaki satchel for her scribbler, her mind still churning over that last paragraph. Something did not gel, did not fit, did not work. And it was driving her to distraction. She eased back in her canvas chair, chewed the end of her 2B pencil, and watched the silver Peugeot negotiate the Five Ways round-a-bout.

She felt blessed to work out here some evenings, to join the crowd of thirty-somethings enjoying life on the street on balmy weekend evenings as summer wound down. Barry did not appreciate the background noise and preferred to stay ensconced in front of the league replay, alternately grouching and celebrating. Margie found that the ambience oiled her creativity.

She slashed an index finger through the air. That was it. Her heroine was not that tall. She scribbled hastily on the pad with the soggy pencil, then took up the Qwerty position.

87. A city reinventing itself

Cicada-like, this unprepossessing cross-city thoroughfare is the mother of reinvention. Cast your imagination back two hundred years and, in the middle-distance, at the first set of lights where now Market intersects with Pitt, there squelched a marshy swamp that segued into the Tank Stream. Today, prising its way from that primordial bog, is an abomination of a retail mall.

The toned muscles of these urban adventurers are in neutral as they pause for the light change at the corner of Market and Castlereagh in the retail heart of the city. Not for them the contemplation of red-coated marines kicking up dust behind them on Hyde Park. Not for them the fluttering bunting and cheering crowds that raucously welcomed Federation.

One generation builds up a city, and the next tears it down. An older generation laments the lost string to the past. The younger generation must adapt to achieve different goals.

86. Making ends meet

Oblivious to the irony, Ramona plied her walking advertisement through Pitt Street mall, even as the rumble in her tummy intensified. Coming from the blasted north of England, she was ignorant of the history of this once grand thoroughfare, although had she bothered, she would have found herself in the familiar surrounds of urban decay, and promised regeneration.

When she left home five months earlier, she had not realised that a “working holiday” meant just that. She’d had visions of packing around the countryside, traipsing from beach to pub to beach, taking the evening bus bound for the next tropical paradise. She had not factored in the distances, nor the dust, nor the flies and mosquitoes. But here she was walking the city, penniless and hungry.

Not for her the beauty of the Strand Arcade, or the sadness of the decimated Sydney Arcade. She was focussed on one thing only.

A member of the Weekend Writer's Retreat

85. In the footsteps of others

The red-coated marines invaded Timmy’s eyes as he scanned down the menu. He could see them in the distance marching with their long black boots down this rutted road that Macquarie designed to be the finest avenue in the fledgling colony. Having brunch at the outside tables brought to life Mrs Jamieson’s unit of study over this last week. He struggled to concentrate as he heard the lone-drummer march the corps onto the dusty, uneven wasteland that he knew as Hyde Park.

‘Timmy, do you want an iced chocolate with your pancakes?’

He could hear the exasperation in her voice, which brought him back to the present with a thud.

‘Ah, no, could I have a juice instead, please?’

He kicked his sneakers back against the wrought iron of the chair, annoyed that his feet still did not reach the footpath. He watched the cars slow down for the lights.

84. A goldfish bowl

Lowering my pack onto the table, I turned indicating to Alex that I would have my usual iced-coffee. I made myself comfortable, as much as one is able in an iron chair, and let my gaze slowly swing around the city square. Although it was only early afternoon, the sun was already slipping behind tall buildings and the shadows in the square lengthening.

The green-grocer had a steady stream of customers, just enough to keep him busy, yet not enough for them to become impatient. From afar it appeared that some were regulars, as he greeted them with warm body language and a few words. To my surprise, purchases were discussed, apples were picked up and rubbed, grapes were sampled. Boxes from behind the tarp were brought to the fore.

As I slurped the last of the ice-cream, and waved to Alex, I wondered if the grocer ever became lonely.

83. Eyes wide open

Rochelle stretched out under the blanket listening to the branch scratch to-and-fro on the window pane. The thought of the day ahead made her quiver with anticipation. She could already hear Aunty Nola showering in the next room. The ferry to the zoo, they would meet Pa and chug across the harbour to the Athol Street Wharf, before taking the cable car to the top.

She tugged open all three drawers to her tallboy. What to wear. What to wear. What to wear. She just knew her mother would cluck away. “You’ll be on the harbour, love. You’ll need a top.” A jumble of jumpers splayed across the rug. Yes, my cap, my tattoo bonnet - just the thing. And, and, and - the toe socks from Aunty Nola last night. Perfect. Mum will have a fit!

She flung herself ‘round the banister and chortled her way down to breakfast.

82. A force for freedom

Jing Tao could not remember her father and her mother. She knew what they looked like, she had seen the photographs. But she had no memory of them. She knew the humiliating story of their fall from grace during The Hundred Flowers Campaign. But she could not recall their touch, or the sound of their voice. She felt this loss keenly.

As she held her pose, she was transported by the hum that coursed from her voice box to the tips of her fingers. The hum that signified to her the three jewels of compassion, moderation and humility. She had long tried to determine how to live in harmony with the universe, and had realised that, for her, inaction could not achieve action. She struggled with this apparent contradiction.

Sensing an interruption, Jing Tao re-entered the bustle of Queen’s Square, and stepping slowly down, handed the young man a pamphlet.

81. Starting out

The balls of Shana’s feet were throbbing. She had been on the go since six this morning, unloading the ovens out in Tempe, and stacking the steaming loaves into Dean’s Hilux. After eight months without a job, she was tickled pink, no matter how much her feet ached.

The biggest buzz for her was the contact with her customers. Fleeting it might be, but usually there was a grin and a ‘Thank you’. The more customers she served, the faster the day went. The faster the day, the quicker payday came around. And this coming payday was of particular significance.

Last December, when she received the job offer , Shana had discussed with her mother when she could pay her own way. They had agreed that as soon as Shana’s bank account rolled into four digits, board would be due.

She smiled to herself. She had plans all mapped out.

80. A continuing journey

Waiting for the Tangara to glide into the platform, Kenny read the poster pinned to the wall. ‘Do not leave belongings unprotected’. ‘Report any suspicious parcels left alone.’ He moved slowly down the platform, catching the averting eye of a grey-haired gentleman reading the morning paper. ‘Another boat-load of illegal refugees batter our northern shores’ screamed from below the masthead of the Telegraph.

Kenny Nguyen felt unease stiffen his shoulder blades. He stared at his shuffling shoes. He was born in this country, yet he looked foreign. If he could but speak those around him could hear he was true blue, hear he was as broad as they. Each day, as he travelled out to Kensington, he gained a greater appreciation of the courage of his grandfather, Son Trung, negotiating the South China Seas in that leaky craft in the spring of ’76. Kenny needed courage from a different drum.

79. On the slippery slope

Pat had always been such an enthusiastic traveller, the first one to pull out the box of creased maps, the first one to dream of wending and clambering. It broke Eric’s heart to see her reduced to this. The trip from London had been horrendous, with her constant inability to catch breath.

And the medical profession had been less than forthcoming.

‘We think there are flakes of muscle which are dislodging and flying around the lung blocking the alveoli.’

Her quality of life was bordering on non-existent, and all this in less than six months. How can thirty four years boil down to this - pushing a wheel c hair across Castlereagh Street when just last Christmas they had planned to travel by four wheel drive to the Red Centre? And the camels, yet again Pat’s idea.

The awareness in Pat’s otherwise dull eyes, brought him down with a thud.

A member of the Weekend Writer's Retreat

78. Making the cut

The nor-east breeze wafting across the cove adds a chill to the air. Rachel kicks back, contemplating the panorama from the passenger terminal back into the Quay, with its concrete and glass towers preparing to light up the evening. The sun dips behind the bridge approaches, shadows gradually lengthen.

This is where the cruise ship out of Vancouver terminated, where she pats herself on the back for framing that tough decision, where her father’s admonition rankles still.

‘You’ll be back. Where will you be without family support, to move back in with when the going gets tough?’

Where would she be? Sous-chef at The Quay, sharing a one-bedroom apartment over in Macleay Street, her scarlet Vespa chained to the bollard in the lane. Where would she be? Right here, standing on her own two feet.

She tosses her gunny-sack over her shoulder and strides inside for an exhilarating Saturday evening.

77. Inside out

He searched for the arguments, shaking his head to separate the voices, oblivious to the askance looks, the shuffling feet.

You think that truth is objective? That there is a single representation that we edge toward? There is no truth; there is only absurdity.

Hedley’s stained fingers worked the noxious weed. The smoldering fag flared with each breath, the argument escaping in mumble.

Truth and free will are but inventions of a moral conscience. There is no universal morality for all people.

He traced the outline of his well-thumbed copy of Nietzsche’s polemic in his back pocket. He could see the pages in his mind’s eye, read the words.

Man is beyond good and evil. He is interested in power, rather than meaning, or pleasure.

Hedley smiled fleetingly across the chess board. He had taught that gambit to Ilsa under the peppercorn in Yurong Street, but that was long gone.

76. The lure of the old

The dilapidated shop-front did not fill Helena with confidence. She checked the envelope that Jonas had thrust upon her the previous evening at the Sotheby’s auction in Queen Street.

‘It will so be worth your while. Go through the shop, heading toward his work area. In the corridor between the two, high up on the left, there is an absolute treasure!”

Cupping her hands against the plate glass, Helena peered into the dim interior. Even from the outside, the musty smell of an old-wares shop set her heart to beat faster. It had ever been thus, since she was twelve and tagging along behind Aunt Dora through the lane ways that criss-cross Chapel Street – a scavenger in training.

With the jangle of the bell in her ear, she negotiated her way through the jumble of other-people’s-treasures, and there it was as Jonas had described: a 1952 Wegner Cow Horn chair.

75. The cupboard was bare (2)

The mesh of the screen door bit deeply into her forehead as she leaned heavily against it with each wave of nausea. She heard the chair scrape the cold tiles as Simon pushed back from the obscured monitor. He did not move toward her. He did not make to speak.

She turned to face him, and saw the answer written on his face, reflected in the flat black of his eyes.

Gone, their wages all gone. She closed her eyes and eased the flat of her fingers across the indentations in her forehead. She swayed. Simon remained across the room.

“This is beyond the two of us, Sal.”

She stared at her cupped hand seeing nothing but darkness. She could not find her way in that darkness. There was no memory. No swirling fog that might lift, just solid dark. ‘There came a big spider that sat down inside her.’

74. No turning back

Stride from the hip girl. You’ve got it, so flaunt it. Nipples erect! Turn those headlights on. Balls is weighed, not counted!

The early afternoon sun lit the burnished ends of her hair as they flounced around her alabaster throat, with its slowly spreading crimson stain. She jammed the outsized Donnatella Vs onto the bridge of her nose.

Don’t look around, she repeated to herself. Do not look around. Don’t give him the satisfaction. You have come this far, you can go all the way.

Small pebbles flicked from the bitumen with every clunk of her Jimmy Chu’s. A few more strides and she would disappear from his sight. Their sight. The sight of them. The two of them, going hell for leather on her imported beige Natuzzi three seater.

She could not suppress a giggle as she role-played requesting a replacement from David Jones’ because the leather was stained.

73. His way

It was the most he could find for under $5 and he shovelled it down hungrily. Walking towards the bin area, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Brian was glad his mother was back in ‘Derry. He could just picture her reaction to his current predicament. Wouldn’t tell her, then! The brewed coffee in this mall was doing his head in.

Fingering the job advert for the lumber yard, he pivoted on his heels and headed back up Oxford Street. Losing the breakfast job at the Potts Point B’n’B still rankled, yet he was coming to terms with his role in the blow-up. He had always been opinionated and ready to share. Curbing this would be a challenge. Having his wallet swiped walking through the turnstiles at The Cross compounded the insult. Not a good week.

He swung into the lumber yard, his brain keeping tabs on his mouth.

72. The cupboard was bare (1)

Withdrawal declined – insufficient funds. A sharp ping coursed her veins. That can’t be right. She punched the numbers in again, more deliberately. Same result.

She flung her shoulder pouch toward the sofa, as the sunroom door slammed behind her. Her fingers trembled as she logged on. Password, password – yes, yes, that’s the one.

Nothing, all gone, empty.

A dull ache welled up between her temple and eye cavity. She could hear her heart beat thud along her inner ear canals. The rumbling pressure waves headed inexorably toward her personal bulls-eye. She splayed her fingers along the edge of the solid maple tabletop. Her silver wedding band reflected in the burnished lustre of the knotted wood.

She forced her eyes to focus on the harsh light of the monitor. There they were: a solid bank of withdrawals, four hundred dollars, every 45 minutes, from midnight to 6am. Star City, NAB, DarlHar.

A member of the Weekend Writer's Retreat

71. Now is the hour

David rarely sat in the same spot. Serves no point, his mind is doing all the work. Besides, the harbour is so different. Forty plus years will do that.

The warmth of the autumn sun transports him back until he can hear the strains of the brass band, and see the uplifted faces. The battalion – “the mighty 1st “ – is stowed, the deck of the Sydney immaculate, and the crew bracing themselves along the for’ard deck. David can bring to memory the frays of twine dangling from the gangplank. Yet he struggles with Jimmy’s face.

Young men, one and all, brothers in more ways than one, aboard the “Vung Tau ferry” to kingdom come. Sure it was heroic, noble, a service to his country. But a lyric dogs him, a snippet from a song Jimmy never knew. “Butchered like lambs at the slaughter.”

He pulls the letter out once more.

70. I don't think so!

Madhu moved slowly and deliberately. With her eyes cast to the ground, and her head in the clouds, she made of herself a small target. It occurred to Helen that this could be by dint of her age, rather than either her race or her gender. There was a massive element of politeness in the body language.

Helen had ensconced herself at a table in the almost deserted forecourt of the old Customs House building. From there she could indulge one of her favourite past-times – people watching.

A smile played around the edges of her mouth. “I wonder if she is aware of the irony of that bloody bag!” Helen's interest, though, was in the stick. Madhu was holding it in an “all the better to hit you with” hold, not to add to her surefootedness.

“What a magnificent crook. I’d love that on my side in a dark alley.”

69. He'd had enough of this!

Bill realised his heart wasn’t in this anymore.

“You sure those figures are right, love?”

He rarely enjoyed these round-tables, papers everywhere, Jean with her lists and he with the calculator. Their original time-frame was for him to retire at 65. Jean was sorted, her pension cutting in just before Christmas. However, being beyond prying government eyes and travelling might just be beyond their resources. But, what can you expect when you leave school at 15 and work for the county council as a pen-pusher or with DJs fitting shoes in their Market Street store. Other than a few measly dollars in super, their only asset was the family home. Being independent meant selling up and moving somewhere cheaper.

“Have another look through the listings, Bill, and include Merry Beach this time. There must be something there for under three-fifty.” She licked her forefinger and attacked the pages. Bill sighed.

68. Taking it all in

Maggie hesitated, she was unsure of the “message” from this heavily daubed, near-naked, black man sitting under a humpy, blasting out a dirge to the accompaniment of a rock beat.

For a slice of vaudeville, nothing could beat this walk around the Quay. She managed it frequently in days of yore – sans children. Nowadays, the variety seemed to be more desperate, ranging as it did from Andean pipes, through fire swallowers, to glorious Spanish flamenco, not forgetting the living statue brigade. However, this didge player had THE prime location and more than his share of the shuffling crowd. He and his spruiker commanded the airwaves.

“It’s okay, Jase, it’s only a didgeridoo.”

Maggie knelt on the baking concrete and wiped the dribble from Poppy’s chin. The mesmerised child shook her head, pushing the hand away with a grunt. Maggie understood Poppy’s body language by now.

This may take a while.

67. Through a glass darkly

I cannot even remember what I saw in her to begin with. I guess there must have been something. It is all so long ago now. Has she changed, or is it me?

Sorry, love. What did you say?
I’m not really all that hungry. Maybe, just that Spanish omelette, and somewhere, I noticed a Wolf Blass Coonawarra blend.

Am I bored, or am I boring? She seems to be enjoying all this. God, I am so depressed. I know Ian seems to think that is a cop-out, blaming everything on being depressed. How can I want out – it’s been over fifty years? Where would I go? How would I untangle it all? Would she mind? Would she even notice? Hah! There’s the rub!

Sorry, love. What? Did I even see that film? Yeah, yeah – I liked Cary Grant. I just cannot recall that particular film.

Anywhere but here ...

66. Where to now?

“And did he say that would work?” She flicked the ash onto the pavement to deflect the thin spiral of smoke.

“They don’t even go there, love. They just say this is the next step if I am to beat this thing.”

Eric shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He could do without having to explain it. He was not even sure he had understood it himself. He knew he was not looking forward to it. Not just the operation, but the stopping smoking, and losing 10 kilos. How on earth was he going to do that?

Gwen put on her best brittle smile. “Let’s go into the Duck & Swan for a counter lunch. They do a great lamb shank on pension day, and lovely creamy mashed spuds, just the way you like them.”

Gingerly, she helped him up from the bench and together they hobbled into the corner pub.

65. A river's song

As the steady beat resounded through the courtyard, the milling crowd hesitated, coming to a mesmerised halt as he started the familiar refrain, “Give me love, love, love, love, crazy love”. He usually had them early into a bracket. Chairs scraped the cobblestones, finding a place to chill beneath the canvas.

Anne-Marie absorbed the curve of his spine as she approached from behind, remembering her fingers running down the ageing but still taut back just the evening before. A smile played at her mouth at the thought of the ponytail tumbling around his shoulders, a remnant of his youth still necessary after all these years.

She circled the edge of the crowd, looking for a perch where she could feel at one with him. “Yes, it makes me mellow down to my soul”. He hesitated slightly, but could not stop the sparkle in his eyes as they sought her out.

A member of the Weekend Writer's Retreat

64. Body language

There is a gentleness here that passeth all understanding, that belies the cacophony of noise and colour of grime in the background. And it is not only in the delicate curl of the hand, but also in the respectful tilt of the head signalling that listening and thinking are both occurring.

Body language can reveal much about the human condition. Walking along a track early in the morning, sun rising, birds twittering and a young woman progressing towards you, lowers her eyes and passes by - silently. A herd of labourers on a building site follow the sassy broad with their slavish eyes, as she negotiates the narrow plank, thrusting their groin in a gruesome pack appreciation.

The glint from the solid band encircling each ring finger indicates that neither is a stranger to Thomas’ milky woods and his bucking ranches of the night. But that is a private matter.

63. Negotiating the city

Cities are not easy to negotiate. There are many modes of transport – car, bus, train, taxi, monorail, lite-rail, ferry, pedicab – but the two fastest, and cheapest, would have to be bicycle and shanks’ pony.

Lashed to a post in Bathurst Street, behind St Andrews Cathedral, this bicycle will get me from the Town Hall to The Rocks in less than ten minutes - faster than other modes. Walking down George Street to The Rocks will take about fifteen minutes. Walking back up George Street takes longer! A bus from the QVB Stands can take in excess of twenty minutes depending on time of day. Training via the City Circle is the least preferable method as it involves countless stairs, massive crowds and unreliable schedules.

The problem with bicycles is that lashing them like this to a post, could see wheels and saddles disappear with just the saddest of shells remaining.

62. From the sidelines

People watching engages every synapse, just as it absorbs every sense. Perched on the edge of a Rees folly (Lloyd not Nathan) in the midst of the early afternoon busyness of Martin Place, at first glance he appears forlorn. Perhaps it is the tumble of the water at his rear, or the trundle of the buses down Castlereagh, more likely just the pensive stance so unexpected of such a virile young man.

Spread out before him is the glory of early twentieth century Sydney, grown to maturity over the space of two world wars that pockmarked other, more distant lands. His eyes target the younger clientele of The Strand Hatters with their jaunty straw Akubras – whether it be a Hampton, a Bogart or a Jive – as they promenade with a spring in their step between the imposing sandstone and granite monuments to the financial acumen of wheeler-dealers long since departed.

61. A thing or two

I gave up “telling” long ago, now I want to share thoughts that are getting the bees in my bonnet buzzing. As much as the crazies were set off by these young men, I am not going to have a go at them specifically. Not like get a haircut and get a real job – not that sort of tirade.

Maybe these lads have jobs: night shift in a bar, perhaps. The thing that gets my goat is that they don’t seem to be stressed enough – at all, really. Nowadays, youngsters work part-time and deliberately eschew possessions, other than e-gadgets to stuff in an ear or thumb-punch. Their income is calculated to fall over the line of next payday. There is neither yesterday, nor tomorrow. Today is everything. Where is struggle street? Where is saving for a rainy day?

Boarding through the city on a slow Monday doesn’t cut it for me.

60. Being cast down

Draft 1 - Prose
Such a delicious word, slough.

His taut, lithe snake shakes an iridescent skin from its shoulders, watching as it ripples free, the full length of his sensuous curves; the discarded layer, encrusted with minute pebbles, floating with a flick, to the cool overhang of a nearby fig tree. The silkiness of the discard, caught mid-stream by the blink of an attendant eye, pausing the projection running in his self-obsessed mind. He is fascinated by his dejected progress along the wharf, his mind’s eye styling an image of a young man, forsaken and cast aside.

Slough of desponds.

A vibrant ripple beneath a stiff white, cotton Gloweave. A fine swishing as the fabric catches momentarily between the slender angularity of his hips and his wrist. He slumps onward through the mental figment of a marshy slough of despond, the dark despair of a guilty conscience forever trudging.

She would regret this.

Draft 2 - Verse
Such a delicious word, slough.

Self-consiously fascinated
by his dejected progress along the wharf;
his mind’s eye styling an image of a young man,
forsaken and cast aside.
His taut, lithe serpent within
shakes a self-righteous skin from its shoulders,
watching as it ripples free, the full length of his sensuous curves;
the discarded layer, encrusted with sweat droplets,
floating with a flick,
lodging in the overhanging bough of a fig tree.
The silkiness of the discard caught mid-stream
by the blink of an attendant eye;
pausing the projection running in his self-obsessed mind.

Slough of desponds.

A vibrant ripple released
beneath stiff white, cotton fabric.
A fine swishing, as the swatch
catches momentarily between the slender angularity
of lithe hips and fine wrist.
He flumps onward through
a mindful figment of a marshy slough of despond;
the pink funk of a queruous conscience forever pouting.

She would regret this.