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.

59. A life of its own

Breaking the mould was not natural. When they first started, it was more to ease the drab tedium. “Come on. You look wonderful, already.” Estella was always eager to be out of the apartment with its drawn drapes, and would tolerate Ronit’s titivations - just. Hands on hat, they flew, arms and legs akimbo, to catch the tram.

They could sense the excitement rising as they sat on the hard benches of the synagogue paying their respects to the departed and to those who made everything possible. However, once on the street, they would snicker behind gloved hands, and throw knowing looks in each other’s direction. The sheer naughtiness of it was delectable.

“Shall we try it again this week? Dare we?” Neither of them was brave without the other. But together, just as they had for nearly sixty years, they turned up Castlereagh and headed towards the Masonic Club.

58. Rebuked

Win Tu had stormed around the apartment all morning. This often happened after an expensive all night session of blackjack. Henry had learnt that, for his wife, blackjack and Tsingtao was an explosive mixture. This morning was no different. “You very boring man.” She flung at him as she stumbled around the apartment shattering glassware and overturning photographs. “I find me young man with more spunk, Aussie man.”

As he walked the three blocks to his office, this outburst echoed around Henry’s head. It wasn’t the first time he had suffered this rebuke. He understood he was boring, but he was well respected, and that meant much to him. Hard work and dedication had earned him equality with his peers at work and acknowledgement from the families as he mingled in the Marigold each evening.

He crossed George Street, entered his building and took the lift to the 28th floor.

57. Stations of a cross

The two women, wandering the galleries as much for the cool air, as for the installations, were unaware of the agony of the fully formed consciousness before them, a sentient being silently begging for release from an existence where she had ceased, not only to matter, but to be, impaled in an ever-changing gallery, where form mattered more than substance.

Ceasing to matter was a metamorphosis recognisable by a gradual fraying of the edges, from sole to mind, an invisibility that released the body from the harsh world of reality into the unknown world of eternity. The artist as celebrant, drafting a policy white-paper on the state of modern marriage that is cognisant of a narrow spectrum of socially acceptable unions, leaving all variants to limbo forever in purgatory.

The immobile face cries out for recognition, for sustenance, for intellectual nourishment, but receives, in return, a single grain of sand.

Photo courtesy of Diane at Adventure before Dementia

56. Meet you on Town Hall steps

As he skimmed his paper, he occasionally checked his mobile. Every so often, the paper draped over his knees, as he cradled his head in his hands. The sun was struggling to warm him through. He did not appear to be in a hurry, although flanked by easy to move and crushable luggage. His dishevelled corduroys distinguished him from the suited businessmen striding across the intersection.

These steps have lost their meeting-spot pre-eminence with the advent of mobiles. The longer he crouched huddled over his paper, the more he joined the clan of the Neanderthal. Meeting on these steps is so last century, so working class, so passé. Not that he cared.

Slowly he rose to his feet, neatly folded the paper and returned it to his back-pack, hoisted that over his shoulders, and with one last despairing look at the blank screen, turned and disappeared down into the underground.

55. The hungry mile

His feet were aching as they slammed down on the unrelenting concrete pavement. He had one more interview to confirm. It had been a long day since stepping off the 8:55 from Grafton onto Platform 1, his list scrunched into his top pocket, his mum’s sandwiches already in his belly.

With unsteady hands, he patted the wallet in his hip pocket, as with dozens of others, he waited for the lights on the corner of George and Bathurst. How this many people could live in a place like this baffled him. People standing in queues, their eyes glazed, their brain in neutral. The noise, the slow forward shuffle, the grime and the constant danger to life and limb had put the wind up him immediately. He had lost count of the gutters he had tripped over, negotiating the city streets.

He punched the number into the mobile, and waited impatiently.

54. Remembering Rowe Street

Little remains to tell of glories passed, save insecure, fading memories.

The elegant millinery shop of Henriette Lammotte stood shoulder to shoulder with the Robin Lea Tea-rooms of the spinster sisters, Norah and Kitty Carr, which held sway at No. 2 for eighteen years. Visiting celebrities staying at the Hotel Australia wandered along the narrow passageway, stepping on and off the gutter, mingling with the gawking lunchtime throng of shop assistants from David Jones’ Elizabeth Street store.

Not working class enough for Jack Mundey, Rowe Street and the Hotel Australia succumbed to the development push of early 70s Sydney, when Harry Seidler’s Sulman Medal winning design for the MLC Centre came to fruition, with its piazza paved with porfido imported from Italy.

Oblivious, he sips his espresso, reading his broadsheet, in a nondescript lane off Pitt Street, unaware that those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

53. Weathergate

The weather unleashes confusion on the populace with its heat, its humidity and its variability. Bewildered, we cope with torrential storms that unleash 100 mm within an evening. Perplexed, we grapple with temperatures that plummet twenty degrees within the hour.

The panting city quivers. The air is enveloped with heat. The earth is enclosed by heat. The very shade beneath the trees is swaddled with heat. The baking footpaths shimmer. The sultry air stifles the passageways and transpires all foliage. This furnace of air wafts skywards, extracting moisture from the already parched earth, withdrawing breath from each withered throat.

An exhausted mirage, the city levitates and climbs upwards to the building cumulus, themselves skyscraping in rolling banks along the southern horizon, multiplying toward explosion point.

Weather is to climate but a second cousin twice removed, a tenuous relationship that befuddles our thinking . We spin in an ocean of half-truths.

52. Call them again

Bloody hell, this is a bridge too far. They are never bloody on time. I just wish they would get their damned act together and stop thinking the world is forever going to cut them slack. I’ve had it up to here with them! And what was the use of us doing all the ticket running around? It’s not as though we can get on without them, seeing as we have their bloody tickets, too! Christ, I am peeved.

Hang on Blue, I’ll dial them ag ...

Don’t call me Blue!

Whoa. Back off, charmer. I am on your side, right?

Yeah, well, I wonder sometimes. They are YOUR friends. You’re the one who suggested we experience the Indian Pacific together. Even after the disaster that was Barrington Tops. I’ve tried telling you that we’re on a hiding to nothing.

Brrring ... brrring ... followed by a hesitant “hello” ...