This month we showcase the creative talents of the following 12 writers
who submitted their responses (in up to 300 words) to Wendy Ratawa’s Remember.
Congratulations to:
Geoffrey Gaskill | Pauline Rimmer | Julie Rysdale |
Catherine Bell | David Bridge | Adam Stone |
Glen Donaldson | John Heritage | Mary-Jane Boughen |
Ian Stewart | Daphne Delores Winter | Gail Griffin
The Remember Man
Try to remember, the kind of September …
What it was to be young and beautiful!
When he sang the villagers crossed themselves and spoke of the Lord’s blessing of a voice purer than mountain spring water, purer than church bells on Sundays.
In town the very stones of the streets and houses soaked up the music. On the mountainsides, among trees and in glades animals and birds stopped to listen–and weep with envy.
The villagers called him the Remember Man. Try to remember, he sang, the kind of …
His voice stole the clip-clop noise of the donkey’s hooves on the cobblestones. No put-put-put or toot of horns of the local horseless carriages could compete with such beauty.
In the crystalline notes of the Remember Man’s voice, village mothers dreamed of the day their daughters would be serenaded. With blushes they dreamed of their future grandchildren.
The town’s daughters didn’t need their mothers to lionise the man with the golden voice.
Regardless of the village, the mountains, mothers or daughters, the Remember Man sang on. Try to remember …
But all things must pass.
One day the music died, and the streets of the village echoed only with the clip-clop of donkey’s hooves and the put-put-put of those horseless carriages.
Some villagers muttered about the Lord giving and the Lord taking away.
Mountain glades and slopes fell silent except for the shushing of the wind in the branches of trees. No bird, no animal stopped any longer to listen–or to weep.
Mothers lamented as their daughters went to lesser men with guttural voices.
Try …
One day only the stones of the streets and the houses remembered.
By Geoffrey Gaskill
Long Way from Home
I grabbed a coffee before the next candidate arrived. It still amazed me to think I had the power to employ someone. I had started as a lowly cleaner, but hard work and luck saw me running my own cleaning business just ten years later. It had not been easy. I worked three jobs and had little sleep, which was just as well because I had lived in a dormitory. The bed was always occupied by another body as soon as it was free. I still worked long hours but could now afford a nice unit and my own bed. The phone interrupted my thoughts.
“Mr Sanchez is here for his interview.”
“Thanks, Carlos.”
I opened the door to see a slim man nervously twisting his hands.
“Come in, Mr Sanchez. May I call you Jose?”
“Of course. Thank you.”
I looked down at the resume in front of me. It was obviously padded out with false employment and details.
“Let’s get straight to it. Are you willing to work hard? Will you be on time? Have you somewhere to stay? Lastly, are you legally allowed to work in America?”
His head dropped.
“I will be honest. I need this job. I have been hiding since I came over the border. I have nothing. I am desperate. You are rich and won’t understand.”
I reached across to a photo and turned it toward him. It was my childhood home. An adobe shack in La Luz in the Sierra mountains.
“I understand more than you know. Welcome to my company. Carlos will give you the paperwork and an advance on your wage. There is a hostel nearby. It’s the land of opportunity, Jose.”
Jose pumped my hand as tears streamed from his eyes.
We were both a long way from home.
By Pauline Rimmer
The Waiting
In the restless years
of time’s wasted land
when your raw knuckles
trapped the sliver of golden glint,
the band of chain and betrayal,
you waited
In the shadowed creases of memory
you waited
for the scrape of boot on flagstone
the key in the lock
in that fear haunted doorway
The tension – the band on your chest
when the stumble and slurry of words,
the meaningless thick paste of sounds,
tied your breath in its cottony wad
as you waited
In the treacherous shades of evening
you lingered with patient terror
for the thud and drag of a chair,
the moods to scream from their den
those words twisted and spat
In the slyness of survival
you wash the bottle clean
as you wait
for the laudanum
to set you free
By Julie Rysdale
Irish Eyes
On your first morning in Dublin, you walk into the breakfast room at the boarding house. You notice a diminutive woman, dressed in black, sitting alone by the fire.
She has an empyreal, ghostlike presence, and goes unnoticed by the other guests. The woman’s dark hair forms a tight chignon at the nape of her neck. And the crisscrossing of creases on her oval face speak of compassion. Her feet, drawn neatly together, rest by the hearth on a clump of peat that exudes a dank, earthy smell.
You watch as the woman balances a floral teacup and saucer on one knee, a small plate of buttered brown bread on the other. When she catches your eye, she smiles a knowing smile that penetrates the depths of your being.
You’re slightly unnerved, off-balance, but curious. Thoughts of Esther, your Irish great-grandmother, tease and play with your mind. You recall stories of how Esther sat by her fire in Australia when she felt homesick for Ireland. How she rested her feet on a clump of Irish peat, and how she nibbled brown bread.
You reach for the basket of brown bread on the breakfast table in front of you. The woman’s eyes all the while resting lightly on your back.
‘Did Esther bake bread like this?’ you wonder. ‘This irresistible Irish heaven?’
You glance again in the direction of the woman. She is warming her pale, thin hands by the fire. One side, then the other, like the flipping of a pancake. Once again you feel the gentle presence of your great-grandmother.
You finish your meal and rise from the breakfast table. The woman’s eyes follow you across the room. Reaching the door, you turn. The woman has vanished.
By Catherine Bell
Past Projection
Jennifer eyed the package with a mixture of hope and suspicion. It was her birthday and her husband, Rick, had dropped hints about a special event. Yet June was not without its ‘dangers’, for with it came the temptations of end of financial year sales that Rick seemed unable to resist.
Last year, Rick and their neighbour, Jerry, had divided the cost of a half-price pizza oven which they had built in the back garden shared by their stone cottages. The vision of companionable nights of fresh baked slices under the stars had cooled somewhat at the discovery that Jerry’s wife, Joyce, favoured Hawaiian above all else. Eventually, Jennifer had withdrawn, there being only so much tinned pineapple and ham that she could digest.
Her favourite relaxation was period-based tv series. She daydreamed of the events that the original cottage residents would have witnessed in the now demolished Victorian main house. Where the light sandstone blocks of their home were brushed clean, it was possible to glimpse how imposing the much larger structure would have been. Rick had promised to renovate the cottage exterior, but it was a task that fell victim to predatory whims.
Opening her present, Jennifer wondered if the beast had struck again. “Full HD Mobile Data Projector,” the box proclaimed, “Dual Speakers, 600 Lumens”, and a host of attributes advocated for by Rick, who, sensing a lagging sales pitch, pointed to a second package. A tear of the wrapping revealed: “Downton Abbey. The Complete Series”.
“We could watch it outside, Jen. I haven’t got a screen yet but I’ll try it on the wall and then on a sheet.”
Wrapped in a blanket, reclining on a garden chair, the sheet ahead and pizza oven behind, Jennifer consoled herself that maybe Hawaiian wasn’t so bad after all.
By David Bridge
Lemonade
It wasn’t easy for Dane. He struggled at school and was largely misunderstood by his teachers, his classmates – and his parents. Undiagnosed ADHD he would find out in later years.
Art was Dane’s thing, his place to go and cut out all the noise. He was quite talented too but how to put that talent to use?
Shoplifting spray cans of paint and random graffiti wasn’t the answer (tag name: dog) and when he was caught in a laneway in Thornbury, he looked to be in deep trouble. That was until the property owner decided not to press charges, on the proviso that Dane cleaned his tag from the garage door and painted something more meaningful. The result was stunning!
A friend of the property owner in the same laneway paid Dane to do something similar. And then another. And this other also had a property in Fitzroy that he asked Dane to take a look at. Not a garage door this time, but the facade of a building from the late 1800s. Set amongst rows of old worker’s cottages, it was once a home for widows out of the Second World War.
Dane took a shine to the old building and immersed himself in the history of it. An old soul, perhaps he saw himself in the aged bricks and render, charmingly cracked, chipped and distorted.
He learned that the women who once lived there were well known in the area for their home-made lemonade and the mural so reverently created by Dane depicts a woman bottling lemonade with great solicitude. The building now exudes affection and respect for the past.
For inspiration, Dane used an old photograph of his great-grandmother, Nana Maya, whom he never met, but felt a kinship with as she too was an artist.
By Adam Stone
The Art of Home Decorating
Ken Elswick was a retired archivist who in his later years had occupied himself with the joys and frustrations of home renovation. One day he and his wife Booka, who had a fondness for the color oatmeal and looks-wise was a dead-ringer for Bea Arthur from ‘The Golden Girls’, decided to replace the wallpaper in their upstairs bedroom.
A few hours into their project, Ken had gone downstairs to make tea, while Booka continued applying the vinegar and warm water solution to the wall to lift the glue. “You’re not going to believe what I see Ken” she called down to him.
“What is it?” he yelled back, projecting his voice in the direction of the upstairs room while reaching for two flower-decorated saucers from the shelf.
“It’s easier if you come and see” replied Booka, barely able to disguise her excitement.
With tea tray in hand, Ken ascended the carpeted stairs, took two breaths at the top and entered the room. What greeted him on the far wall, with his wife standing alongside still clutching a putty knife in one hand and a spray bottle in the other, was a most unusual sight.
Beneath the peeled back layer of old wallpaper was a faded portrait of a young woman. She was wearing a black ‘Wednesday Adams’ dress with white collar and rolled up sleeves. Ken’s first thought was the woman looked like she could be the younger sister of da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
His second thought, inspired to say the least, was to see if he could order ‘Mona Lisa’ wallpaper. Two days later several rolls arrived on their front doorstep. By the following week their decorating was complete. “Our room is a goddam masterpiece,” they declared, champagne glasses raised to the ceiling.
By Glen Donaldson
myth maker
some wear
their heart
on their sleeve
i project
your image
over ruins
of my dreams
By John Heritage
A woman’s place
Sacrifice, duty, loss.
The war meant all of that.
No-one was spared the pain of losing loved ones, and suffering rationing and hunger.
Well, no-one I knew; well-off people could afford eggs, fresh veggies, and meat, well beyond the rations outlined in our books.
And as a married woman, trying to make ends meet, trying to be both mother and father to my children, they were hard times.
Three at home, and two sons overseas, as well as my husband. Sons, following their father, doing their duty, my boys, wanting to prove themselves to be men. I prayed desperately every night, that they would return safely. Their letters home arrived erratically and were full of holes and black Texta crossing out any details of their whereabouts.
And then, I was summoned to the workplace, to help at a munitions factory at Laverton.
Working fulltime, then going home to stoke the fire and put together a meal for the hungry bairns.
Women, we filled the gaps in factories, in offices, we worked as nurses, and clerks, here and overseas.
Then the war ended, finally.
Did we rejoice? How could I, when only Hugh came home.
Harry, missing, and my beloved Jack, dead, somewhere on the battlefields of France.
I shake my head when I hear “Lest we forget.”
Do not tell me I need to remember,
how could I ever forget?
By Mary-Jane Boughen
Remember
Out the back – that’s where it was. The old laundry, with all its lingering memories. Walls cracked by years of ageing; window rusted shut.
Her sleeves are rolled up. Is that a scrubbing tool in her hand? Hours of work over many years, slaving away in this ‘room out the back’.
I imagine her to be a faithful retainer, doing for the ‘big house’ family what her mother did before her. Inside that room would have been the copper, set firmly on its brick fireplace, a pile of wood stacked nearby. There would have been buckets to fetch water; a double concrete sink with a mangle, first to rinse the clothes then to squeeze water out. Nearby would have been the clothesline, strung across the yard. Clothes props would have been standing idly by the door, awaiting use.
Then there’s the other figure, sleeve also up. Perhaps he is her husband, likewise bound to the owner-family by tradition and lineage. If this is a rural scene, then he will be the one to tend the draught horses, work the paddocks with the boss, crutch sheep, mark lambs and – when there’s a moment – spend time with his wife and children.
Modern mechanisation has eliminated this scene and has swept away the opportunities to gain satisfaction from the effort put in to do the manual work required. Slow it may have been, achingly physical it may have been, but the reward was there.
Who loves the laundry today?
By Ian Stewart
Three’s A Crowd
‘The roof leaks and needs replacement. The hallway walls are support walls and can’t be knocked out. To run water inside, the pipes would be exposed on the inside walls, because they can’t go underfloor or through sandstone – which is so cracked already.’ Justin couldn’t keep the agitation out of his voice. His dream to renovate the old Harrow Hotel was turning into an unaffordable nightmare.
Amy, scrolling through the building inspector’s report Justin had just emailed her, said ‘We knew we were in for lots of repairs. And all new facilities out the back.’
‘Sure, but if we can’t open up the front space, how can we run a café? The rooms only fit one or two tables. Maybe we should back out altogether then renegotiate the price.’
‘Well, let’s have another look before we decide. We can ask Barry, that local builder, to come and go through the inspection report with us.’
‘Okay. But they want our answer tomorrow at the latest.’
Justin agreed to try for an on-site meeting with the agent and Barry at around 6 pm.
Amy arrived at 5:30 and found Justin inside with Barry. The agent had trusted Justin with the key, pleading another engagement.
‘Good on you for taking this one on,’ Barry said, greeting Amy. ‘It’d be fantastic to see this old girl in action again. It’s been empty too long.’
‘So you think it’s a goer?’ Justin asked.
‘Maybe. Others have tried, but folded.’
‘Tell me more,’ Amy said.
Barry scratched his head. ‘Well, it’s got history. Good for tourism but bad for renovation. And there are stories…’ He broke off.
Justin and Amy shuddered involuntarily. The air had cooled. The room darkened. An apparently disembodied woman’s voice asked in an English accent, ‘What’s your poison then, guv?’
By Daphne Delores Winter
Message Received
Love at first sight. Despite the agent’s efforts to dissuade us, with comments like, ‘Don’t let the exterior put you off’ and ‘Just delay your opinion until you look inside’, we were immediately determined to secure this property. At only two years old, the house’s design and inclusions were contemporary and sought-after. ‘Sold’ we told the agent and he hurried off to finalise the negotiations. Not long into our settling in, the reason why the founding family had quickly listed and sold became apparent. We were sharing our newly-purchased home with a long-standing resident—a ghost– whose ownership preceded ours.
Our dogs were the first to discover her. Outdoor dogs, they took every opportunity to push past us at the back door, to enter the home and literally tear up the corridor that ran the length of the house. They sniffed and scratched and barked at the ‘intruder’. Sleeping at night was routinely interrupted by our daughter calling out from her bedroom, ‘Mum! There’s someone in my room!’. The final straw that prompted my consult with a psychic came after my husband was confronted with the spectre of a female walking past the mirror that hung on the lounge room wall. Dressed in clothing of a bygone era, she turned and whispered to him, ‘I’m happy that you’re here!’
‘Tell her to go to the light!’ the psychic advised.
‘But how will I know that she’s gone and won’t return?’ I asked.
‘I’ll send you a message.’
The following day two birds affixed themselves to the security door that led onto the outdoor pool. They chirruped loudly and flew off. Moments later, those same two birds appeared on the front door’s security grid. Again, they chirruped before flying off.
Message received. Never again did we see that ghost!
By Gail Griffin
Glen Donaldson
My first thought regarding the female spectre who was afraid of birds in MESSAGE RECEIVED was it might have been the spirit of American actress Tippi Hedren. My second thought was, “No that can’t be. Tippi is still very much alive!”