THE ROAD TRIP

 Here is another little story that resulted when a prompt offered by a member of our writing group fell into my memories and came up up with something briefly glimpsed along a highway one damp day.....

THE ROAD TRIP

Richard Slade

July, 2017

Liz stepped back a few paces when the young policewoman began questioning Neville. He had his arms folded, his shoulders back, chin up, and back straight. It was that look that she had mistaken, forty five years ago, for manly determination and courage.

Was it that long ago? Forty five years of wifely duties – of raising children, hosting dinner parties for his work colleagues, running the household (as best she could, given Neville's tight reign on all matters financial), and supporting him during his relentless climb up the various corporate ladders he had latched onto.

Somehow, the forty five years did not seem as long as the first six months of Neville's retirement had. What would two years of travelling round Australia with him feel like – a century? It would have to be two years, at the least. That's how long a lease they had granted the new occupants of their lovely, tree-shaded, St Ives home. Two years, minus the two long days since they had driven away from it. She could still see the smiles on the faces of their tenants, as they directed the removalists and savoured the gardens.

Now, home was an eight metre long caravan, The caravan was luxurious, as was the brand new Landcruiser that Neville had purchased to tow it with.

Had that policewoman noticed the way Liz's head had jerked up, and her raised eyebrows, as Neville wove a detailed description of the fast moving, non-descript, silver sedan that had cut in front of him, forcing the evasive manoeuvre that had caused their sudden departure from that tight bend in the highway? A very badly made bend, in Neville's opinion; one that shared the blame equally, along with the miscreant driver – now long gone from the scene of his crime – for what had happened next. The car was mythical, but Liz wasn’t going to argue the point.

Neville had not noticed anything. Chin jutting, arms crossed, gazing into the distance, he was unaware of anything Liz said or did until it directly affected his wallet or his prestige. The policewoman slipped a few more glances at Liz, even as she kept jotting Neville's utterances in her notebook. Liz rolled her eyes and looked at the caravan. It was on its side in the long grass between the north and south-bound lanes of the highway. The tow-truck driver had connected a steel cable somewhere under the front of the Cruiser, which was, miraculously, still upright, though pointing the wrong way. He had shaken his head when Neville had declared that vehicle and van would be "right as rain in no time at all"

The towie had tried to explain just how badly damaged both vehicles were, but his words had fallen into the well of silence, while Neville droned on.

He thought she had been asleep when the crash had happened, but she had only closed her right eye. Neville's confidence in his own driving skills was not shared by Liz, who had, for decades, done all the driving, whether of children to sport, school, or events, or of a tipsy Neville, coming home from another corporate function. So Liz kept one eye open, hoping she would see the end coming and have time to offer up one final, brief prayer. In this case, she had time for quite a bit of praying before the Cruiser and van finished sliding across the wet grass, but all that came out were a handful of expletives she had not realised she knew. Neville chastised her for her language, several times, before the police arrived.

She smiled, just a little, and clutched her handbag tightly to her aching ribs. It contained something that she had never before owned; a card that gave her access to their bank account – his account.

Neville had agreed to provide her with one just before their departure, swayed by her vivid evocation of what might happen to him if he suffered a medical emergency in some far outback place, and she was unable to access the finances they might need for the provision of quality care.

She smiled again. Taree would have the right brand of bank, and an airport, or a train station. A few scotches at the end of a stressful day like this and Neville would sleep until morning tea time tomorrow. It might take hours after that for Neville to realise that she was gone, days before he worked out how she had done it, and weeks more for him to believe it.

A Whisper of Writers

 A little poem from a quiet moment with my writer's group, three years or so ago....

AT WRITERS GROUP

When the Magpies and

squabbling Rosellas

have gone,

for now

The creak and scratch

of pen and paper

is all the sound

I hear

But listen – just then

the fireplace creaked

A distant dinosaur

growls its diesel roar

Small feathered bells tumble

through shadowed leaves

A page turns

A writer sighs

Outside a crow

calls the falling sun

The fridge

hums back to life

Look Again

 Our Writing Group retreated to a sort of electronic arm's length during 2021, and was just beginning to meet in person again in the latter part of the year.  It was suggested that we put together a series of short pieces based on several prompts that focused on a family, and this was my first response.... the actual prompt is the heading.

 

BUT WHEN SHE TURNED AND LOOKED AGAIN....

When I moved into the house where I hoped to rebuild my dreams, and my life, at 32 Swanson St (a true “renovator's delight” - long vacant while its previous owner faded away in aged care) my first encounters with the neighbours left me fearing my dream was really the opening act in a nightmare.

The friends helping me move were quick to spot the old man wandering in the front yard of number 34. He was a balding, lopsided, stooped shape that, if straightened out and rejuvenated, would have given any opposing rugby opponents pause. His crooked face was in constant motion. His eyes darted like pin-balls while a constellation of expressions that danced from delight to grimaces, and back again, with detours through anger, terror, and confusion as he muttered constantly, declaiming to some invisible audience, or demanding answers from the same unseen person, except when his eyes were fixed on me as I carried the detritus of my broken marriage from the footpath into my house of new hopes. Unsettled, I left the ferrying of goods to my friends and began to unpack the kitchenware and prepare a morning tea for the workers.

A tumbling flash of red and white outside my kitchen window became a football soaring over the fence from the back yard of number 30 and vanishing in the weeds of what I hoped would one day be my perfect garden. Seconds later, three boys threw themselves over the paling fence in pursuit of the ball, while other little heads popped up above the palings to watch their progress.

Now I knew where the background noise of yelling, shouting, screaming, and laughter had been coming from. Dust rose where tall weeds shook and the smallest of the boys burst into sight, ball clutched fiercely to his chest, his shirt-tails firmly in the clutches of one of the larger boys. His mouth fell open when he saw me staring at him through the glass. He pointed, and the others froze for a moment, before charging back to the fence and scrambling up and over. The silence was ominous, and soon broken by the angry voice a woman somewhere inside number 30, and the indignant arguments of children. Not a word was comprehensible, but the tone was fierce, and soon only the woman's voice remained.

As I stood listening, the backyard came into focus, and I saw things I hadn't noticed when the agent had shown me the house, weeks earlier. Planks and sticks and dead leaves were piled up in the furthest corner, and I realized that I was looking at a tepee, made by small hands. When I walked down and peered inside, there were toy cars, a home made bow and some arrows, and a home made ladder leading to the top of the fence overlooking the back corner of number 34. Movement and muttering again – the old man was now wandering his back yard, his head just visible above the fence.

What had I let myself in for? I went back into my new abode and supervised the placing of the few pieces of furniture I owned, opened a bottle of wine and thanked my friends for their help. Their toasts of good luck fell into a murky, troubled pool of apprehension, and I was sorry to see them drive away. Number 30 was back to full volume; what were they fighting about now.? As I stood at my front door, cheering broke out from my right, while on my left, the battered old man was pacing back and forth between his letterbox and his front porch, more agitated than ever.

Suddenly, a horde of children, ranging from teen to toddler swept down the front path at number 30 and clattered along the footpath to where the old man had, paused at his gate. As I watched in fearful anticipation, he smiled, patted the smallest girl on the head, and then suffered himself to be led into his house by two teenage girls. A tall boy cradled a foam vegetable box as he followed them, and I realized I could smell cooked meat – was that roast lamb? Did one of those girls call the old man Poppy? I jumped as a throat cleared itself behind my right shoulder, and as I turned to look again in the direction of my letter box, I found myself face to face with two of the fence jumpers.

They were standing just outside my gate, looking much cleaner than they had earlier, one of them holding something covered in a tea towel. As my brain grappled with the sight, my nose clutched at the scent of warm, fresh baked cake. I blinked, and looked from them to the empty front yard of number 34, and back to them. The bigger boy spoke.

“That's Pop” he said “He's mum's grandpa – he's really old. We take him dinner every night” he added, shuffling his feet “Mum sent us to say we're sorry about jumping the fence, and we'll come after school tomorrow and clean up our fort in the back yard, if that's alright, and she said you would like this cake. She just made it. It's our favourite” 

A babble of voices announced the return of the party from number 34, and I looked again at the two earnest faces in front of me. I had to swallow before I could speak, and by then the other children were waiting quietly by my letterbox, gazing at their siblings and the stranger who had taken over their playground.

“I haven't unpacked my plates or cutlery properly yet” I said, finding my voice “Do you think it would be alright if I came in and shared the cake with you guys and your parents? I can bring some drinks”

“There's just Mum, and she loves visitors” the younger boy said, and grinned “and she loves white wine”

“Give me half a minute and I'll be right in – save a slice of cake for me”

Leaving

 A little something done to a prompt from another member of our little writing group - people whose creativity and support are most excellent to share at any time, but certainly during another Covid lock-down.........  the prompt was one word - "Leaving" - to be done as a single page, and, as such prompts always do, produced five very different approaches.  This was mine....

 

LEAVING:

When he left, he hadn't thought he might be leaving forever – that what he was leaving behind would not, one day, offer him familiar comforts upon his return home, and those he was leaving would not be waiting to warmly welcome him into their arms. Now, so many years later, he wondered how much of that long ago life would be left, should he find his way back to the place in which he had been formed.

The welcoming arms were gone, he knew – wrinkled, then withered, and, finally, crumbled into dust; only the leavings of memory remained, thin and faded and comfortless. What was left of his childhood home had been, the letter said, left to him, though how much of those past comforts might be left by now was questionable. The letter carried a date from a year left far behind; it had traveled, and waited, and travelled again – lured on in pursuit of its beneficiary by tales and wild rumours left in his wake, left in the care of someone who longed to see him again, passed on to fresh hands as that hope faded and died, time and again, down the length of a turbulent decade.

Had some recipient of the letter been prescient in their choice of place and person for its next destination, or had he somehow doubled back on his own tracks, and met it coming after him? The date, when he finally opened it, untouched by any sense of its possible significance, left him momentarily stunned, and then amused. Its contents, those few dry, terse, officious paragraphs, had left him empty of breath, heartbeat, and feeling. How long had he sat there, unaware of the world, before the senses that had left him so suddenly returned in a wave of pain and disbelief.

How had that time passed so quickly? How could he have not returned when he was needed? Why had he not kept himself informed? The answer came quickly, in the calls and laughter of his team mates, the revving of engines, and the clatter of luggage and equipment. His comrades were almost ready to leave this little oasis of safety and satiety in pursuit of the next adventure, and he would be leaving with them, no matter what the letter in his hands had to say. Whatever had been left him in that missive was from the past – the leavings of a life he could never return to, even if he wanted to.

Boots clattered down the stairs outside his room, and the door shook under the knocking of a gnarled fist. He let the letter slip from his fingers and left it to curl and blacken in the flames of the fireplace as he shouldered his gear and left the past where it belonged.

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Room for Mountains Writers

 I recently had the pleasure of attending the official opening of the WestWords Western Sydney Writer's Rooms, also known as Katoomba: The Den 24/7

The well-appointed writer's space is situated in the basement of Gallery One88, and was officially launched on Saturday 16th December, before a large gathering of local writers and artists.

Welcome to country was beautifully spoken and sung by Uncle Lex Dadd, after which, local author Libby Gleeson – one of the original founders of the institution - gave an introduction to the history and purpose of Westwords and the writer's rooms and writing programs established under its auspices.

Well known local authors, Tohby Riddle and Jennifer Rowe – known for her works as Emily Rodda, amongst other things – also addressed the crowd.

Though officially a 'basement', the writer's room is a large space, well decorated with local artworks and furnished with a number of large, comfortable writing desks. Information about access, fees, membership, and services (including free wi-fi), can be found at the Westwords website.

The space is set up in co-operation with the owners of Gallery One88, and can be accessed 24/7 by writers who have signed up with Westwords for a weekly, monthly, or six monthly membership.

The Blue Mountains is an area awash with creativity, being home to many writers and artists of varying degrees of fame or notoriety.  For those of you who might be seeking the fellowship of other aspiring writers in The Mountains, it can also be found at such places as The Blue Mountains Writers who meet at Springwood on the first Sunday of each month, or a less formal group of writers who meet at Katoomba Library from 1pm to 3pm on the second Sunday of each month (if interested, turn up with a pen and some paper, and say hello - we don't bite)  Examples of some of the work from this group can be found on the Library page Writers in The Mist as well as on other pages of this blog, or these blogs - Offerings from the Wellspring and Musings from The Mountains.

Varuna House is another dedicated writers space that is worth keeping in contact with, as they host a number of interesting events every year, as well as offering scholarships and programs to assist aspiring writers, while the NSW Writers Centre offers lots of useful resources, as does the Australian Society of Authors.

We all carry a folder full of stories around inside us - let some of your stories out to play.  Better still, take them out in the company of other writers, like the ones you will find in the writer's groups, or at the writers rooms.  Writing only seems like it should be a solitary art until you have had the pleasure of working with other like-minded people, and discovering that you are not alone - we are all makers of stories, and the right writing company may help you find stories you did not know you had.

A Moment of Triumph

At a meeting of our writer's group someone suggested as a prompt to work from the phrase "A moment of triumph"  This is what that drew from my pen that afternoon...

Lift, reach, hack, and scrape.

Lift, reach, hack, and scrape.

Lift, reach, hack, and scrape.

Mick had settled into the same easy rhythm as his team mates, Sean and Garry.  Over the past hour or so, they had cut a narrow trail of bare earth through the thick leaf litter, angling down from the landing pad on the ridge top, weaving between trees and boulders, to flatter ground.

A hundred metres back up the trail, another team in white overalls scraped and clattered with their rake-hoes, dragging leaves, sticks and pebbles further from the reach of the approaching fire.  Fifty metres further uphill, another trio were working with chainsaws and hoes, trimming branches and saplings away from a winding avenue of bare rock and sand, in preparation for the application of the drip-torch.

Behind the trees on the ridge top, helicopter turbines began to scream their way to full power.  The thrumming of the rotors vibrated in the bones of the workers as the machine powered away from the landing pad, having left another crew safely on the ground.

Mick wondered if the pad was properly cleared yet.  Having to unload crew and fire-fighting gear onto a narrow ledge from a helicopter that was rocking under power, while the machine's  front skids were just balancing on the rocky edge of the ridge had been a new experience for him. It was better than having to come down ropes through the trees, but it would be nice to have a full sized landing pad to leave from.

He looked up to watch it thunder overhead, and saw that  there was more white smoke drifting over from the west than there had been earlier in the afternoon.

"Should be nearly at that old logging track," Sean said, "it'll be easier going then."

"Hope so, that fire's getting close" Garry replied, still scraping and digging.

"Another crew just came in, must be their turn to break trail," Mick replied, stopping work to take a big swig from a water bottle.

Lift, reach, hack, and scrape. The three men went back to work.  Fifteen minutes later, more white overalls appeared from between the trees.  Sean groaned and swore, and the other two looked up.

"I wondered when that bastard'd get here" he said.  Leading the new arrivals was the stout figure of the Senior Field Officer, Tolley.  His white overalls were half hidden by army surplus webbing, spare water bottles, radios, batteries, and, probably, three days supplies of food for a normal person.

"Can't leave you lot unsupervised for a minute, can I?" the SFO snarled, "Can't you do anything properly?  This break needs to be twice as wide if it's going to be any use."

"It will be when the follow-up crews come through," Garry muttered.  Tolley ignored him as he stepped over and snatched the McLeod tool from Mick's hands.  Mick jumped back a few feet – experience had taught him never to be close to Tolley when he had any sort of tool in his hands.  Sean and Garry followed suit, while the two who had come down the trail with the SFO backed away up hill a bit.

Tolley started taking savage swings, sending sand, pebbles, leaves and twigs flying everywhere.  With a dozen violent strokes, he had doubled the width of a short section of the fire break.  With a flourish, and a cry of "this is how it's done" he leapt onto the newly bared earth and began striking at the leaf-litter on the fire-wards side of the track, dragging tangles of it across to the lee side.

"See?" he said, as he turned and began tearing at the next section of the break.  Moments later, he was airborne, screaming.  The rake-hoe flew between Mick and Sean, as Tolley began a wild dance back along the track.  As he leapt, he tore at the buckles of the webbing, and then at the press-studs of his overalls, while the others watched in wonder.

Various items of equipment flew off in different directions, followed by two boots, and finally, the overalls, as Tolley continued to yell and slap at his body and legs.

Mick leaned carefully forward and surveyed the newly cleared ground that Tolley had fled from.  On it, heads high, and pincers wide, a tribe of very large, black bull-ants – meaner and deadlier by far than their better known red cousins – milled around, searching for the offender who had just torn the roof off their cosy nest.

Ten yards up the hill, Tolley, clad now in socks and white undies, was bent over, checking each leg, nook, and cranny, while at the same time keeping a watchful eye on the ground around him.  Sean, often the preferred victim for Tolley's work-place tyrannies, stopped laughing and straightened up.  Putting on a serious, almost concerned face, he called to their boss.

"Hey mate, do you know if you're allergic to insect bites? Just asking, you know, 'cause a couple of years ago, we had to carry a bloke off the fire-ground after some insect bit him. He started to swell up and then he passed out."  Tolley's eyes widened in horror.

"Dunno?" said Sean, " Well then, you'd better start marching, cause it's three hundred yards back to the helicopter, and you're too bloody big for us to carry up that ridge."  Sean grinned as his nemesis grabbed the overalls, boots, and other gear that was being handed to him and took off back towards the top of the ridge.  Peace had returned to the fire-ground.

My Writing Life

My Writing Life.

After decades of furtive scribbling, I have come out, joined a writer's group or two, and discovered the pleasure and success that working with other writers can bring.  Like minded, or utterly different, fellow writers provide support, criticism, confidence, practical advice, and perspective.  They help you understand what you can achieve, despite your qualms and procrastinatory impulses.

They show you other ways of looking at topics, and help you see the value in your own viewpoint, and they bring reality to the most salient advice that any writer (or, for that matter, creative in any field) can receive - just start.  Nothing is achieved if no first step is taken.

Stories are at the core of the way humans learn about and make sense of the world and all its startling and bewildering aspects.  Storytelling is something I have always enjoyed, and the gathering of stories is something we all do, as we continue to build our picture of life and the world it is lived in.

This Blog is to be an outlet for some of those stories, and, possibly, some of the other fields of creativity and leisure I occupy my time committing or performing.  Some of my recent meanderings have been tidied up and hurled into the ether via these creative outlets -

The Wild Goose Literary eJournal
http://nataliemuller.weebly.com/the-wild-goose-literary-e-journal.html

Blue Mountains Library Writers in the Mist
https://altitudewriters.wordpress.com/

Writers in the Mist has published a number of pieces by members of the writer's group that meets on the second Sunday of each month, at Katoomba Library.  Natalie, an editor, writer, and teacher, also has workshops at Katoomba and Springwood Libraries from time to time.

Others in that writing group have already published blogs, and I can recommend those to people interested in life, literature, and the world at large.......

http://offeringsfromthewellspring.blogspot.com.au/

https://jml297.com/

But now, the rain has stopped, and the birds have begun calling to each other. The newly risen creek is chortling and singing as it climbs its banks and tests the hold that each tree and bush has taken upon the earth.

Yesterday, a Pacific Heron waded here, shin deep, searching out tadpoles - today, he would be swept away.  And the tadpoles?