From shining star to sea: the journey of an unlikely promise

Welcome!

Succulents are perfect for Adelaide summers

We are in the midst of a record-breaking heatwave. I am so grateful to live in the Adelaide Hills where the trees give refreshment even in scorching weather. We have seen koalas a lot more than usual as they move into the suburbs in search of water. The magpies, wattle birds and silvereyes appreciate our birdbath, which has to be topped up frequently. The garden is surviving the heat well – my deep watering approach seems to be working but it requires daily diligence as I use a sprinkler mornings and evenings in different areas of the yard. We used to have it all rigged up with automatic systems, but the garden has changed and the system has aged beyond usefulness.

In recognition of Christmas in one week’s time, here is a Christmas story with a difference. It is based on a rather odd Victorian Christmas card (c. 1880).

From shining star to sea: the journey of an unlikely promise         

Robbi lay back down on a rock near the shore, terrified, yet almost relieved that his fears were being realised. It was a fool’s journey, but what else can a mouse do? He tried to explain it to the lobsters again.

                There was much clacking of claws. It dawned on the mouse that they were laughing. He wished they would kill him and be done with it. His mission made no sense anyway.

                The last of the sunlight was swallowed by the ocean. The mouse, still wet, began to shiver. An order was given to carry him to the beach for a gathering of the clan. Robbi’s tail was pinched in a large claw and he was dragged to the sand, pressed by dozens of hard-shelled bodies.

The biggest lobster spoke at him. ‘There was an ancient promise about a message from the King of the Land. Frankly, it sounds like nonsense. But truth comes in strange packages. You might go to our King, if you’re convincing. Speak up.’

                The mouse trembled; he knew he had no powers of persuasion. His death was imminent.

                He spoke quickly, hastening the inevitable. ‘I was in a forest. A large beast was caught in a hunter’s trap, a net of thick rope binding it. When I realised it a was a lion, I knew I should have listened to my father.

                ‘The lion did not kill me with its huge paws. It asked for help. I chewed through the rope in all the places the lion told me, and expected to be eaten for my troubles.

                ‘I darted away as he wriggled free, but froze with terror as a roar shook the ground. He bellowed, “I, the King of the Land, thank you, little mouse. If you dare, come close again.”

                ‘My legs were stiff with fear, but I went close. After all, even though he’s a lion, he is my King.

                ‘"You are a brave soul,” he said. “I will need you again one day. Will you do what I ask if I call you?”

                ‘Not long afterwards a new star had appeared in the sky. Every creature began rehearsing old stories of a long-forgotten promise. The King called me. He said the time of reconciliation had begun. He sent me to the King of the Sea to say: Peace, Joy, Health and Happiness from the King of the Heavens.

                ‘I warned him I would fail. I had so many reasons why he should entrust the message to someone else, but he would not listen. He asked, “Will you go?”

                ‘What can a mouse do? I said yes. And here I am.’

                A hint of moonrise lit the underside of a cloud, making the lobsters restless. They twitched their antennae, waiting for a signal from the Boss. He was in deep silence.

                ‘Boll! I charge you with taking this mouse to the King.’

                Boll, the mouse’s former guard, stepped forward. ‘But I can’t.’

                ‘You can and you will. Go, and may the favour of the King of the Heavens follow you. Oh, you’d better take this.’ He passed it a white oilskin with some incomprehensible words written on it. Then he dismissed the young lobster with an imperious wave of a claw.

                The rest of the clan fled to the safety of the dark waters as the moon lit the winter night.

                Only Boll and Robbi remained on the beach, shifting uneasily. ‘What do you think it says?’ the mouse asked the lobster, indicating the oilskin in its claw.

                ‘How should I know?’

                ‘Oh.’ Gulping, the mouse said, ‘We’d better just go.’

                ‘Right. Er, how? You can’t swim.’

                ‘I can, if my head is above the water.’

                ‘Right. Ride on my back.’

                Robbi climbed on and slid off the other side.

                Boll clacked. ‘Better hang on to one set of my feelers. I’ll use the others.’

                They tried again, with more success, and Boll took a few steps. ‘Okay up there? Hold the message.’ It handed the oilskin to the mouse.

                ‘Okay,’ Robbi said, all his senses alert. ‘Let’s go.’

               

The Boss watched from his rock at the water’s edge. It was the strangest sight in all his long years, a mouse on the back of a small lobster, the white oilskin message hanging down from a paw. One mouthful and they’d both be gone. The skin had been in the Boss’s family for generations. But what can a lobster do? It was the King of Heaven’s problem now.

I echo the message of the King of Heaven: may you have Peace, Joy, Health and Happiness this Christmas and in the new year.

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

Julia: a story

Welcome!

Spring delight

The first spring flush is passing now in the Adelaide Hills. I am trying to be diligent to remove spent flowers in the hope of a new flush in a few weeks’ time. I find it a challenge to manage that, weeding, fertilising, mulching and watering all at once! I don’t have a green thumb but I start each growing season full of hope.

The fruit trees are producing mixed results. Lemon – fabulous; one of the apples – very promising; nectarine – nothing at all after a serious infestation of aphids; apricot – a decent crop. Unforeseen disasters may occur, of course – growing things is a risky hobby.

Do you enjoy dreaming? I love it; it’s like reading without the book. Not always as satisfying but often intriguing. Today’s story is a drama that started with a dream I had.

Julia

He was looking directly at me as I stood in the phone booth, about to make a difficult call. He was the archetypal gentleman, from his well-cut suit and his neatly trimmed beard to the way he held his tall body with perfect ease and grace.

I banged the receiver down awkwardly and left the booth.

‘I hate strangers staring at me, ‘ I muttered, forced to walk past him to get to my room. Once I was around the corner, I ran, holding two thoughts at once. The first was to lock myself in my room and stay out of sight until I was sure he had left the premises. The second was his odd reply to my outburst: ‘I know what you mean.’

I knew who he was, though what he was doing in an ordinary London boarding hostel, I had no idea.

The hostel was pleasant enough, and I was one of the lucky two boarders who had ground floor rooms with big windows and a little patch of grass beyond the back door. I was careful to keep those big windows covered with their heavy drapes when there were strangers around, but as I slammed the door behind me and pushed the bolt, I realised that if I was to remain out of sight I had no time to close them again. I had opened them only a short time before to allow the rare sunshine in.

I heard his voice from my hiding place under the bed on the far side of the room.

‘Madam? Are you all right? I meant no disrespect.’

I could just see him as he stood on the little lawn, his handsome face filled with concern. I knew who he was and that he meant well, but I stayed where I was until he left.

Fate kept placing George and me in the same public locations for some months after that, as if London were too small for two strangers to not connect. I pretended not to see him on each occasion and, since I would not look at him after the first recognition of his presence, I could not know if he had seen me. Finally there came a day when we communicated, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

It was not fate that caused Wade to turn up at various junctures of my life. On this day, a brisk spring day with its usual dose of wind and rain, he ran into me as I left Sloane Square station.

‘Julia,’ I heard a voice say behind me. I froze.

He came around to face me, pushing me gently to the edge of the pavement where the eaves of an apartment block gave a little protection and the stream of commuters flowed past us without interruption. I stared at my feet, unable to think straight, which was typical when Wade was around.

‘You didn’t give me an answer after last time,’ he said. Even into the low voice he used to keep our conversation private, he managed to inject poison. I felt it leaking into me from my ears steadily towards my heart. I had no antidote; I just waited for it to take familiar effect.

‘You know my answer,’ I said, forcing the words from my lips.

But he knew my weakness. ‘You say that, but you’ll do what I say. If you don’t add my name to your account by the end of the week, I’ll make sure Alexa knows exactly what you did on the night she was conceived. Every bloody detail.’

Alexa was my five year old daughter, who lived in the care of my sister in a village in Devon. I didn’t put it past Wade to have worked out where she was, nor to tell a child things no child should know.

I had practised what I should say, but now I could not remember the words or any sense of how I could resist his threat. But before I was forced to respond, a third person joined us. George.

‘Is there a problem here?’ he asked in his fine English that made Wade’s private school accent sound common.

My fuddled brain had had no chance to plan for an event unforeseen. ‘He’s trying to blackmail me,’ I blurted, looking George in the eyes for the first time since our encounter at the phone booth. Then my eyes flew to Wade’s face and I blushed. Wade always made me feel that my actions were wrong.

Only this time it was Wade who did not know how to respond.

Before he could, George spoke again. ‘If anything suspicious happens in this woman’s life, ever, you will feel the full weight of the law.’ He looked directly at Wade for a moment that carried the significance of years, and then turned to me.

Handing me a business card, he said, ‘You can contact me any time if he gives you more trouble.’ Then he touched his right hand to his head in that ageless gesture of the English gentleman, and walked in the direction of all the other morning commuters. It struck me for the first time that George used public transport like the rest of us.

Wade found his words, and his venom. ‘Oh yes, he’s going to solve the sordid dealings of a bitch on the street.’ He had regained his usual place of power between us. ‘Who does he think he is?’

‘George Pennington, QC,’ I said, reading the card.

‘Some fancy lawyer type. He’ll have forgotten you by the time he’s finished reading the Times.’ He seemed to need to convince himself.

‘He’ll remember,’ I said. ‘We have met before. And he’s renowned for his memory of detail.’

Wade’s confidence was shaken, and in like measure mine was increasing.

‘You don’t know who he is, do you, Wade?’ I pressed. ‘He’s literally a QC – counsel to the royal family.’

And then I did what I should have done years earlier. I said, ‘Goodbye, Wade,’ and turned my back on him.

I walked in the direction George had walked, simply because he had; that was all the sense of direction I needed. Of course I did not see him. In fact, we never met again. Nor did I suffer further threats from Wade Chandler.

Have a happy November!

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

The Crypt (Part Two)

Welcome!

Cape Gooseberry

I wrote too quickly about our winter-ripening fruits. Not long after my last post we experienced frosts in the garden for the first time in the sixteen years we have lived here. The pepino was badly burned, the agaves on our deck turned to mush, and the lovely cape gooseberry pictured here is much reduced. I have learned to make pepino & lemon jam, and pepino & ginger chutney, so all is not lost!

Next winter I'll know to check for low overnight temperatures and to cover the vulnerable plants with a sheet. But now the spring is coming, though a little colder and wetter than usual after what seems a wet enough winter to me, but which they tell us was actually much drier than average. South Australia needs its winter rains so that we have enough water in the long, hot, dry summer. So bring on the rain!

Continuing the story, begun in my previous post, of a courageous young woman and an uncommon sword in a desperate situation...

The Crypt (Part Two)

He stands with his arms crossed, leaning against the rail while his goons come at her from each side. Sharpy is there to her right, his knife doing its dance. She swings that way, then to her left as the first boy runs at her, then back as quickly as she can again towards Sharpy, trying to swish the sword a little so that he cannot entirely anticipate her moves. Back and forth they duck and lunge, and sometimes the blade makes contact with a boy or the box or the rail. All the time Honeytongue keeps up a languid commentary until the young woman wishes she could switch him off.

She cannot keep it up much longer. How she has even managed this long is a puzzle she has no mental capacity to examine yet. The boys are making hits with the tip of the knife and with fists, and the young woman’s body is bruised, cut and aching all over. The sword hangs from her hands, its weight unable to be raised higher than her waist. Her back is wet with sweat, and her mind foggy with weariness. It is difficult to see in the faint light with sweat misting her vision.

Honeytongue vaults the box and stands directly in front of her, towering over her. There is no room to swing the sword even if she had the strength.

‘Drop it.’

The voice does not sound right, her dazed mind tells her. She tries to let go of the sword but her fingers will not unclamp. The sword dips down to the platform on Sharpy’s side. But Sharpy is not there. Honeytongue is still on the box but he is looking towards the door. The other boy is crouched low on the platform looking the same way.

‘How dare you treat the Sword of Truth with such dishonour! Stop playing around. Put it back where you found it and come down here.’ The imperious voice rings out through the dark crypt. Steps sound, and suddenly the room is filled with light.

Honeytongue had used the last moments of darkness to grab for the young woman. But she is not there. She too had used the distraction to advantage, slipping into Sharpy’s previous position, dragging the sword with her. The man’s voice has charged her with new energy though she barely recognises the words.

‘Get off the altar,’ the man says. He strides towards the platform, his indignation evident in his steps.

‘She needs help, sir,’ Honeytongue says, his voice dripping with compassion. ‘She’s not herself.’

‘He’s a snake. Don’t listen to him. They chased me here to do me harm. There’s one with a knife somewhere, and another one up here where you can’t see him.’

‘Put the sword down,’ the man says.

‘Not until you make them leave.’

Honeytongue turns back to the young woman, drops to his haunches and reaches for her in a swift movement. Before the man can say or do anything, she brings the waiting sword down with all its weight flat onto the boy’s head. He falls like a stone on the platform.

The man runs up the stairs, shouting, ‘My God! What have you done?’

The young woman lifts the sword again, every muscle straining. ‘Don’t come close,’ she warns. ‘And watch out for the other two.’

The man steps back, then walks around the other way. There a black-clad boy squats, springing up as he sees the man.

‘She’s dangerous. Look what she did to my arm,’ he whimpers. But he keeps his distance.

‘Where’s the third one?’

‘Probably trying to get to the door. He’s a coward. I don’t think he’ll stay for his mates.’

The man hesitates. He looks at the sword and at the boys on the platform, one unaware, the other cowering. ‘Come on,’ he says to the whimperer. ‘Come with me.’ He leads the boy down the steps and across the floor to the door. As they pass a stack of boxes, Sharpy darts out and, grabbing the other boy, pushes the man away.

The man staggers, but in spite of his scrawny physique he holds his ground. He simply watches as the boys run through the door and out into the night.

‘Just you and me now,’ he says, walking back towards the platform. ‘You can put the sword back in its place.’ He waits at the bottom of the steps.

The young woman sobs a single choking cry as the sword clatters onto the floor. She falls forward against the box, her head hanging, her hair a curtain hiding her face. She has no strength to protect herself any more.

The man walks slowly up the steps and checks the slumped boy. He picks up the sword and examines it closely, pommel, guard and blade. Apparently satisfied, he replaces it carefully in its bed. ‘Your work is not over yet, it seems,’ he murmurs. ‘And I had thought, all these years, that your glory lay in history. Can your light and hope influence even this age?’

The young woman, now standing, sees her rescuer a confused old man. Where is the booming voice, the certainty that banished her assailants?

She takes a step towards him.  ‘You did what was needed, sir. We all did – you, the sword and I.’ After a moment she adds, ‘Do you mind if I leave now?’

The man stares at her, looking at her closely for the first time. She knows what he sees – the now dust-smeared and slashed burgundy clothing, the dyed black hair and stark makeup now smudged into a mispainted mask. She can feel blood dripping from her side, and wonders if it shows through her tunic. She senses a residue of violence in her very skin and longs to be washed clean, of this and the endless fear.

The man looks at the remaining boy, still as death on the platform. ‘I think we had better call the police. Why don’t you come to my house and clean up? My housekeeper will have some clothes, I think.’

The young woman studies his grey, lined face; he keeps his eyes on the fallen boy. ‘I guess so,’ she says, resignation and hope mingling. With one last look at the sword, now still, its jewels gleaming in the electric light, she limps down the steps and follows him towards the door.

That’s the end of the story. I like subtle endings. How do you feel about them? Do you prefer endings that tell you more about what happened afterwards? Happy endings? Endings that leave possibilities open? Perhaps you have a favourite story ending you would like to quote. Leave a comment and share your thoughts.

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

The Crypt: a short story

Welcome!

Luxurious growth - pepino gold

Mid-winter in the Adelaide Hills, and it’s wet and cold as it should be. Yet we have our share of sunshine days, which makes for pleasant gardening and even a picnic or two.

Unusual fruit - pepino gold

There are more plants flowering now than there were in May, which always surprises me. I have been planting unusual fruits this year, and today’s pics shows how a small pepino gold that lost its leaves in its first winter is now taking over my garden – and still flowering and ripening fruit through the cold! I discovered that I don’t really like the flavour of the ripened melon-like fruit, but fortunately my offspring do. It can also be eaten unripe, cooked like various other relatively tasteless vegetables (choko comes to mind) which fill out a casserole or stir fry. I don’t mind that. And, at the very least, the plant adds lushness to my garden, which is always welcome.

The story this month, a drama with a hint of myth, shows an experience involving an ancient sword in the life of an oppressed young woman . The story is too long for one post, so come by again in August for the second half.

The Crypt

Around the bejewelled sword lying in splendour on a raised dais lined with royal blue satin stand eleven solemn devotees. They link hands in the circle and one by one they name a gemstone – emerald, ruby, sapphire, diamond – and intone the meaning of each symbol engraved in the gleaming steel – truth, light, strength, honour, hope, power, love.

   A gaunt man in purple robes speaks longer than the others, reminding them of how the sword came to them through the centuries. He gives them the benefit of his meditations on just one of the many glories of the sword but he does not demonstrate it, though he has some skill. His focus has always been more on its making and its history.

   The attendants leave after a hymn of praise to the maker and the original wielders of this mighty and glorious weapon of a past age.

A young woman dressed in rich monochrome stands in the shadow of the crypt. With her back against a wall still warmed by the summer sun, she tries to slow her wildly beating heart. Beyond her a strobe of moonlight flashing between the branches of a windblown eucalypt alternately lights, then hides, a group of boys. They huddle, the backs of their black t-shirts showing as dark patches in the evening, then spread out, each of the four in a different direction. One begins to move towards the crypt, slowly, his head turning left, right, in front as he searches.

The young woman feels for the handle of the door to her left. It is locked, as it was the three previous times she tried it. She turns to face the wall and feels upwards for the window, which is closed. There is no mechanism; her fingernail on her right middle finger tears as she feels all around the edge, searching for a gap.

She turns back to see where the approaching boy is now. She panics for a moment, then spots him searching under the trees of a neighbouring yard, just over the road.

She has known this crypt since childhood when she and her brothers had played hide and seek among the stone buildings of the historic precinct. They had always called this ‘the crypt’, although it was set only a little lower than the other buildings, its foundations six feet below ground level. A concrete path surrounds the rectangular building, and concrete retaining walls. Wide concrete steps lead down to the main door. She has never entered, but a sign states the times of worship, when the crypt is opened.

Creeping around the corner from the locked side entrance, the young woman tries to picture the crypt walls as she saw them in her childhood games. A memory tugs at the corner of her mind as her fingers trail lightly along the wall. This side is cool, never receiving the sun’s attention. While it leads away from the one who searches for her, she recognises it is a dead end trap. There is no knowing where the other boys are. Even now they could be approaching from behind the hall in front of her. She listens for footfalls and giveaway crunching of stone or leaf litter underfoot, but the wind blows all sound aside except its own.

Her fingers identify a change of texture, and into her memory springs the image of a metal grate as large as a small dog. She turns to face this dank wall, putting both her hands to the grate and pulling. It moves with a scrape of metal against stone. She pulls carefully, feeling the pressure of the unknown at her back but fearing the sound giving away her location. Pushing, easing, holding her breath, stopping when the wind stops. Finally the grate comes out. She has no idea what lies beyond it.

She places the metal carefully on the concrete path to her right. The space where it was is pitch black. She feels as far in as she can reach, brushing away accumulated litter. It crackles a little, and she stops to listen again. Is that an answering crackle behind her, just to her left? Her heart beat increases and the pounding makes it harder to hear. It takes all her effort to hold the fear back, to think before she moves.

The wind’s white noise begins again. The young woman makes her decision and thrusts her arms and head into the space, and pulls herself into the tight, cold stone tunnel. The air is musty, dead, and dusty enough to tempt a sneeze which she manages to supress. She drags her body through, combat style though the movements are awkward, arrhythmic in the cramped space. In every moment she fears hitting her head, her hands touching something other than stone, or her feet being pulled.

Then her hands feel nothing but space. She forces herself to continue until her waist is at the lip of the stone, her upper body held in air. She cannot sense what is ahead of her. She might fall head first, a long way. But there is no other way. She wishes she had started feet first.

She falls. A jumble of nerve ending signals and sounds sort themselves, moments later, into a tangle of wooden chairs, an echoing crash, and a stabbing pain in her right thigh.

Her eyes adjust to the dark; moonlight entering a high window gives enough light to see the essentials. She manages to stand, making the chairs tumble further. She hobbles towards a central section, a platform of some kind. For a while she forgets the threat outside in the otherworldly wonder of being inside this place for the first time.

Her feet bump into a step, and she half falls up a set of them. At the top of the platform is a rail, a wide walkway, and a large box in the middle. She shuffles forward.

The hint of moonlight reflects off something on the top of the box. She lets her fingers provide the details her eyes cannot make out. There is silky fabric in generous folds around the edge, and then something hard and cold and long in the middle. Lightly tracing its shape from the top, she understands that it is a sword. Its pommel is scratchy, lumpy, and the cross guard similarly textured. Her hand slips into the grip and, without meaning to, she begins to lift the sword from its bed. It is too heavy. She lets it go again.

Why, she wonders, is there a sword in here, the centrepiece of this room? A crypt is normally a burial place but instead a sword lies in the place of honour. It is a mystery.

Scuffling and muffled voices remind her that this is not the time for mystery. She berates herself for losing focus, for not closing off the tunnel that is even now giving her enemies the same access she used. She is trapped. She would like to kneel or sit hidden but she remains standing, likely outlined by the moonlight, because she does not trust her right leg to do anything else. She waits.

They come, three of them, one by one tumbling out of the tunnel with a clatter and a shout. She waits for the fourth. Perhaps he is too big for the tunnel, or stands guard outside.

They fan out, still systematic in their method, edging around the room, approaching the platform from three directions, muttering instructions in short phrases. They have done this before, she thinks. Fear rises in her chest again. She feels the futility of resistance, and sweats the temptation to reveal herself and surrender to their vile intentions. It would be a relief, really, after all this time. If it isn’t these boys, it’s her stepfather, his son, her French teacher – a string of parasitic males and their sycophant female partners. She has been playing hide and seek for real for so long. How bitterly ironic that she should finally be caught here, inside the favourite refuge of her unsuspecting childhood.

‘Hsst!’

She has been seen. She braces herself, adrenaline overcoming any thought of surrender. She steps up to the box and grasps the sword. Again she wonders at the way it fits her hand. She knows the sword is too heavy but she sets herself to raise it anyway. She is here, it is here, and her enemy is upon her.

The sword rises, glinting in the faint light as if it flashes a message. The fear drains from her and in its place a battle cry fills her lungs and forces its way through her lips: ‘The sword of light! You cannot defeat it.’

Exaltation sustains her as the first boy comes at her, jeering, ‘Ha! That thing’s twice your size. You’ll kill yourself before you can hurt us.’

He lunges at her and she waves the sword wildly at him, both hands on the hilt. The weight of the blade smacks him on the shoulder and knocks him off balance. He groans and rolls away from her.

The second boy runs up the platform steps. ‘You little bitch! You don’t deserve to live – you’re nothin’ but a gash and I’m gonna prove it.’ He pulls from his boot something small that glints as he dances around, twisting it, thrusting it, moving closer to the young woman. She swings the sword, loses her footing; he darts in and slices at her side while she is hefting the sword back in his direction. She feels the sting of contact with his blade even as the sword slices towards him. He ducks. The sword clatters against the railing and bounces. It is all she can do to hold it. She has no control of its direction.

The knife-wielder is joined by the third boy now, both of them keeping out of the sword’s range, side by side on the platform with the box between her and them.

Her arms are getting tired and the weight of the unwieldy weapon drags at her shoulders. The initial exaltation is dulling. Her strength will not last as long as her determination. But still she holds the sword with both hands, letting it rest for a moment against the box while she strains to see the movements of her assailants.

The first boy is on his feet again, clutching his struck shoulder with the other hand and swaying like a drunk. ‘I say we just run at her—‘

‘Shut up.’ The third boy’s words hold authority. He turns his attention to the young woman. ‘You’re getting tired, aren’t you? You’ve put up a good fight. Pretty impressive for a slight build like yours. I’ll say this for you – you’re feisty.’

She feels a new measure of wariness. He is cunning, this boy with his honey words, using the soft touch while his mates are harsh. In spite of herself she answers. ‘You’re no better than the rest, even if you play Mr Nice Guy. You don’t fool me.’

‘Quit blabbin’,’ the second boy, the knife-wielder, growls. ‘Let’s just cut her and get outta here.’

Their leader pays no attention. He holds them back, standing nonchalant, relaxed, as if all the searching and chasing were just to engage in conversation with her.

She flexes her fingers and resettles her grip.

‘You realise, of course – you’re no idiot – that we’ve got you cornered. You can’t win against three of us. You’ll just get hurt. It’s heavy, isn’t it, and your muscles aren’t trained to use it. You did well getting in here. It took us a while to find you. But you know, don’t you, that even your smarts can’t beat the three of us.

‘Why don’t you just put the sword down,’ he continues, ‘and let’s sort this out calmly. We won’t kill you – we just mean to have our fun, so if you’re really smart you’ll cooperate with us. I’ll make sure Sharpy here puts his knife away. I’m not into cutting.’

Sharpy growls but he puts the knife back into his boot.

‘See,’ says Honeytongue, ‘they do what I tell them. You will too.’

There is no threat in his tone, just supreme confidence in his authority. He seems so reasonable, so sure of himself, the young woman thinks that it would be easy to believe him. She is tired, her leg and her arms telling her in no uncertain terms that they are not enjoying this unfamiliar action.

‘No,’ she says, grimacing at the pathetic whisper. ‘No.’ She says it more firmly, and clears her throat. But she has no more words to add in the waiting silence. She raises the sword and balances the weight on her feet. The silence stretches until she’s sure something will snap.

‘Too bad,’ Honeytongue remarks, ‘I prefer my catch unbruised. Go to it, boys.’

(To be continued)

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

Paint Job (Part 3)

                         Welcome!

rock roses - like little suns

It’s officially autumn in southern Australia, but as usual we are having a hot spell in the first two weeks of March. Why doesn’t the weather read the calendar? The Australian Indigenous people have much more accurate seasonal calendars, with five or six seasons noted in each region and no dependence on dates – entirely sensible. Soon enough the weather will become cool, the days short, and these hot, steamy days will be forgotten. At any rate, the azaleas are confident of that as they push out buds in anticipation.

And now for the finale of the three part story, Paint Job.  I hope you enjoy reading the way it turned out as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Paint Job (Part III)

Pete didn’t have much stuff of his own but, even so, it seemed pretty slack to leave his packing till the day before we had to be out. He wasn’t around enough for me to point this out to him. It was almost as if he was avoiding me.

            On our last night at Davenlea Ma decided to seriously vent her stress on a three course meal. Pete turned up at the last minute and we tucked into the fruit of Ma’s genius as if we had something to celebrate. I focused on the food and tried not to think about the next day.

            Pete pulled out a bottle of champagne. ‘We need to commemorate the occasion.’ He left the kitchen to get some glasses and returned with three champagne flutes Ma had kept in the old china cabinet.

Ma’s frown was no deeper than usual. She took another bite of pie without comment. But my mouth must have looked like the cork had exploded from it instead of the bottle. I’d had enough.

‘You can’t just pretend it’s not happening, mate,’ I said to Pete. ‘We’re out of here tomorrow and you’re acting like it’s a party. I saw Ma pack up the china and all, so what do you think you’re doing taking our stuff out like that and making it harder for us? Dammit, Pete, this is it. This is it. It’s over. We’re leaving. Got it?’

Pete was leaning back in his chair grinning. The man was as mad as a hatter.

I pushed my chair back so hard, the screech ripped through the silence. I stumbled, my furious and embarrassed exit interrupted by the smugness on Pete’s face and the twitch of amusement in Ma’s.

I flung myself back onto the chair. ‘What’s the joke?’

‘I had my speech all ready, but your impromptu one was much more dramatic,’ Pete said as he began pouring the bubbly. ‘Actually, it really is a party. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you but Rhoda knew all along and I couldn’t come up with anything brilliant. So here it is: I am the new owner of 14 Delamere Road, Davenlea.’ He beamed at me like Santa Claus.

            I looked at Ma and back at Pete, then down at my forgotten plate, trying to add up all the pieces of the past few weeks. It had knocked the wind out of me but it didn’t resolve the anger.

            ‘You? How could you do that to us? We took you in, made you part of the family. I thought you were like a brother to me, the best kind of brother. And you’re kicking us out. You’re as bad as the rest. I’m glad we’re leaving this town.’

            This time as I started to push back my chair, Ma put her work-worn hand on mine. ‘Stay, Matthew. You’d better hear the whole story so you know who to consign to hell.’

            Pete handed me a glass. ‘Here’s to brothers.’ I just shook my head but I took the glass. I wasn’t going to waste good champers just because he was a bastard.

            Somehow between Pete’s bonhomie and Ma’s bite I managed to piece together the strange saga of how Pete had found his way to us after his mother had taken up with a new bloke. Wanting to check out the story his new stepfather was telling, he’d come across a customer who knew the man’s abandoned family and Pete had taken his plan a step further. The customer had known that Ma was cash-strapped and had put the idea into Pete’s head that he should ask to board.

After digesting this extraordinary tale, I said, ‘You mean we really are brothers?’

Pete nodded. Ma snorted.

            ‘So why are we leaving?’

            Pete looked at Ma. Ma stared back and then dropped her gaze and slumped a little.

I stared at Ma. Had Pete just achieved the impossible? I’d never seen anyone have that effect on her. Ma didn’t back down for anyone.

She lifted her head and half-turned towards me. ‘Pete said we could stay. I refused.’

‘You what?’ I gave her a look that would have bored a hole in anyone less thick-skinned. ‘How could you? I’m sixteen, Ma. I’ve got a life too, and you can’t just make all the decisions like I’m a little kid who has to follow you everywhere. What if I want to stay?’

I didn’t have the same effect on Ma as Pete. She straightened up again and turned fully towards me. ‘Decisions like this aren’t just a matter of doing what feels good. How would you pay for board? I can’t support both of us in different places. What kind of life would it be for you without your mother? You’re only sixteen, Matthew. I’m still legally responsible for you. And…’

I waited, forcing my fists to unclench. ‘And?’ I repeated.

She swallowed. ‘And I didn’t want to lose everything all at once,’ she said in a small voice. She stood up to clear away the half-eaten dishes.

I stopped her taking mine. I was just starting to get an appetite again.

‘Rhoda, Mattie’s only got another year before he has to go to the city for uni. Is it really worth it for him to change schools, move to where he has no friends, start again for one year? I told you, he can stay here with me. He can give me what the government gives him for living away from home, and if that doesn’t work out, I’m sure we can twist Rod’s arm for support.’

I nodded furiously. ‘Yeah, Dad can pay for a change. This is perfect, Ma.’

Ma glared. ‘You’d better hope the government pays up, young man.’

‘Does that mean I can stay?’ The decision lay on the edge of a blade; I tried not to look too eager. As I watched her face, usually so closed and dark, I saw what I hadn’t noticed before. Ma looked lost. I had a glimpse of how hard it might be for a mother to leave her only son, and I steeled myself.

            ‘After all, a boy has to leave home some time’, she muttered, as if to convince herself.

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

Paint Job (Part 2)

                         Welcome!

Tomato promise

The vegetable garden is looking good but there’s not much produce. I only plant for the summer of the year we stay home for Christmas: tomatoes, basil, chives, and self-sown pumpkin (there’s always some of that going from the compost). We’ve had a few tomatoes, and the basil has been magnificent, but there just hasn’t been enough out of the vegetable garden yet to justify all the water and work that goes into it. Maybe with a few weeks of summer left we’ll start to get the productivity I’d hoped for. But maybe just having a happily growing green patch of garden is worth it anyway.

Here is the second instalment of Paint Job. I hope you enjoy it and look forward to the final part in two weeks’ time.

Paint Job (Part II)

Something wasn't right. Ma wasn't one to back down like that, even though it had her characteristic sarcasm.

            Pete was cutting himself half a loaf. 'Want some, Mattie? There's enough for both of us.' But I wasn't hungry.

            I walked into the lounge room, reaching for the light switch in the dark. The room glowed in its new rich colours, friendly, although it looked unfamiliar with the furniture missing or covered. We'd done a pretty decent job. Okay, we hadn't asked Ma's opinion before we'd launched in but that wouldn't usually send her off the deep end like this. There had to be something I didn't know that would make the equation work.

            And then I saw a piece of paper on the floor where Ma had stood to survey our handiwork. It had fallen, presumably, and had slipped most of the way under the dropsheet. I picked it up, and took it under the light, looking over my shoulder momentarily to be sure I was alone.

On behalf of our client, Mr Roderick Sidney Halston, we are informing you that the property in which you now reside at 14 Delamere Road, Davenlea, and which was solely owned by our client, has now been sold. You received notification, sent from this office on 23 September to the effect that the house was on the market. At your request, no signage was put up at the property, and a buyer was sought and found by a more discreet method. That sale having now been finalised, you have thirty days to take up residence elsewhere. The new owner will shortly contact you to make final arrangements. . .

            I also dropped the letter. It had to be a hoax. Why would my father sell the house from under us? We hadn't even known where he was; he'd never called or written. He might as well have dropped off the edge of the world.

            I couldn't begin to think about what this meant for me and Ma, and Pete. There were no words, so I just watched TV with Pete for the evening and said nothing.

            Ma appeared at breakfast the next morning looking her usual immutable self. She didn't mention the letter so neither did I. Pete and I spent the day on the second coat of paint, putting the furniture back again in the evening. The room looked fresh and warm. I felt I'd been evicted already.

            'He does a good enough paint job, for an electrician,' Ma commented, and Pete beamed. I looked out to the plain, neat front yard, imagining the 'For Sale' sign that had actually existed but been invisible to me and Pete.

            'Good enough to sell,' I mumbled and walked towards the kitchen. I saw the letter where I'd dropped it last night and I kicked it into a corner.

There wasn’t time to fix up more of the house before we had to leave, and why would we want to improve it for the bloody mystery buyer anyway? There was no time for anything except packing up my life into a few battered boxes. Ma wouldn’t let me take half my stuff.

            ‘How big do you think your aunt’s house is, Matthew? You’re lucky you’ll have a room. If Shane hadn’t already left home, you’d be sleeping in the shed with your boxes.’

            I wasn’t looking forward to moving three hours north to Ma’s sister Ruth’s. At least my cousin wasn’t there. Aunty Ruth was all right, but leaving Pete behind in exchange for a second mother wasn’t my idea of a move in the right direction.

            We didn’t see much of Pete in these last weeks. I was trying to work out how I was going to say goodbye to him, daydreaming that he might move somewhere near my aunt’s, knowing that he had no reason to leave this town with all the contract work he was getting. I wished we could have had longer together before life busted us up.

 See you next time!

Claire Belberg

Paint Job (Part I)

                         Welcome!

No place like home

How weird was it to return from tropical (dry season) Cambodia to find that our summer Adelaide Hills garden was green and refreshing! Thanks to our friend watering regularly and some cooler weather, home was truly a sight for weary eyes. This week’s cooler weather is a bit of a shock, with temperatures consistently in the low 20s (Celsius)/low 70s (Fahrenheit), but I’m not complaining. The koala pictured here lives in my neighbourhood, another welcome sight for a travel weary Aussie.

My new story will be rolled out over three posts, so enjoy the first instalment!

Paint Job

Part I

'He's an electrician, for gods' sake! What would he know about interior decorating?' Ma pressed her lips together and strode from the dropcloth-covered lounge room.

            Pete and I shrugged and said nothing. What was there to say? We'd known Ma would react that way – nobody knows anything more than Ma – and we also knew she'd vent her superiority on pastry and there'd be a grand supper tonight. We made ourselves scarce till it was time to eat.

            Pete had been boarding at our place for five months and my life had never been more satisfying. When Dad had shot through two years earlier, I'd been left to defend the reputation of the male of the species. It was a full-time job; senior high school was a breeze by comparison. And then Pete had turned up.

            I'd never quite worked out the pieces of his story – where he'd been before and why he was here now – but one thing was clear: he'd won Ma over, or she wouldn't have let him move in.

            Pete was about three years older than me, the brother I'd alternated between longing for and being grateful I didn't have. If I'd had a brother like Joe's, I'd have left home. But Pete more than matched the other side of my scale. As long as he stayed, I'd stay.

            Pete's electrical skills were a boon in the old house, with its dicky lighting that flashed as if it had ambitions to join the lightning it emulated. The switches sparked when we shifted them, and we never knew if the TV would work. Pete fixed all that in his first three weeks and Ma waived the board money.

            'Why don't you take up a trade, do something useful with your life?' she took to asking whenever I claimed schoolwork as my excuse for copping out of the dishes. Like going to university to study engineering wouldn't be useful.

            In all the time Pete had been with us, Ma had never spoken directly to him. Pete was always 'he', never 'you'. It was kind of freaky, but Pete didn't seem to mind. Pete didn't mind anything much, really, except hunger and police officers. He was adept at steering clear of both.

This particular weekend was the long one in June, the Queen's birthday. The weather was lousy: wet and windy. I was sick of all my computer games, and our internet connection didn't like rain.

            'You up for a bit of useful, Mattie?' Pete asked when we'd been doing nothing for a couple of hours.

            'What kind of useful?' I asked, thinking of the assignments I was avoiding and wishing he'd offered fun instead.

            'How about we fix up this room while Rhoda's busy with the oldies at the nursing home?'

            'Whaddya mean, 'fix it up'? It's okay as it is. Been like this as long as I remember.'

            'That's my point,' he said, slapping my back. 'Don't you reckon your ma would like a fresh coat of paint on it? Look,' he added, pointing at the bare patches around the light switch, 'there's hardly any paint left. What colour was it, d'ya reckon?'

            I looked, probably for the first time in the ten years since I'd scratched my name in the paint behind the sofa. 'Dunno. Can't remember. Maybe cream?'

            'Well, I figure we've got four hours. We can do one coat before she gets back, if we're fast. You in it?'

            Pete was already walking out to the shed as I muttered a half-hearted, 'S'pose so.' He came back with a couple of new tins of paint.

            'Corn chip. It's the latest fashion colour. I saw it in this house I was working on last week, and the woman there showed me one of those home decorator magazines. This colour was the hot favourite.'

            What did I know? I started packing up Ma's knick knacks and photos while Pete shoved the movable furniture into the corridor. We covered the heavy stuff with old sheets, brought in buckets of water and scrubbed the walls with sugar soap. There wasn't much paint anywhere on the wall when we'd finished.

            The time raced as we slapped on paint while the CD player thumped fast music to set our pace. Pete was up on the ladder painting the cornice a tomato-and-milk colour which he reckoned the magazine showed too, and I was tidying the edges and removing drips when we heard the slam of the back door. I turned the CD off and looked up as Ma stood in the doorway from the kitchen.

            'Whose idea?' she said hoarsely. I looked at Pete, who stood on the ladder grinning, his brush poised over the paint tin hanging from its wire handle.

            'Looks like a different place, huh, Rhoda? D'ya like it? We'll finish it off properly, like professionals. It'll be done by the end of the weekend.'

            I groaned – he hadn't told me that part.

            Ma made her comment and left. We cleaned up and spent the time before supper washing out paint-soaked brushes and wiping up all the drips and smudges that seemed to have spread themselves around.

            We sat down at the kitchen table at the usual time for supper, our hands raw from an hour in cold water and turps. There was something in the oven, but no sign of Ma. We waited a few minutes, but then Pete opened the oven.

            'Get the plates, Matt,' he grunted as he pulled out a baking dish. 'Oh-oh,' he added, 'we've got trouble.' He dumped the dish on the stovetop and stood looking at it, absently slapping the worn oven glove from hand to hand.

            I looked too. Corn chips floating in tomato soup. 'I guess she didn't like the colour scheme.'

            'Yeah.'

            Pete went to the fridge to find something more palatable.

            'There's a note,' I said, pulling a sticky note off the fridge door.

            Maybe he knows about cooking too. He's welcome to it.

Ooh, Ma is really riled. I wonder why? Read the second instalment next time.

See you then...

Claire Belberg