The Deal

The 'Deal' was set, with no name or formal acknowledgement, that it was, a 'deal'.

It was more of an 'Agreement' I suppose.

The Husband had been off at the 'War'.

The New Wife had been at home, gestating, and bearing, and giving birth, to the child, who had been accidentally concieved, at a contrived, conjugal meeting, hasitly convened, just before the Husband had been posted off, Unexpectedly, " Overseas".

Upon the Husband's Return, he was dismayed, and shocked, to discover he had a child, though he had known of her birth, and he had even looked forward to becoming aquainted with this small child who was the result of his final expression of love, with his new bride.

A fractious, hostile, jealous, little daughter, who obviously disapproved of everything about him.

How dare he come between her and her mother... and 'Little Sister'.

Wait a minute... Little Sister??

There could be NO Little Sister.

The Husband had been overseas, deployed in hideous warfare, too terrifying to talk about, on his return.

His Return, to a horrible truth, he did not wish to face, nor want to confront. His Bride had betrayed him.
She had born another child, after his,~ this second child~ not his.
The result of an accidental 'coupling'.

After much agonising, a 'Deal' was struck.

The Wife could keep His (Their) child, on condition she relinquished the second child.

The 'Deal' dictated, should the Wife decide to keep the 'Second Child' she could not have access, nor the custody of, the Elder, Marital, Child.

The Distressed and Distraught Wife, chose the 'Deal'.

****
The Myna birds screeched in the tall dark Pines, a cacophony to deride and mock, the Wife in her grief.

The 'Deal' had been struck.

She had forsaken her second born, and cleaved to the Husband, and her firstborn daughter.

Too soon, she was pregnant with her third child, a 'cementing' of the marriage, and a denial, in a sense, of her folly, her 'fall from grace'.

As she bore the hot and heavy pregnancy of this third child, the screeching of the Myna birds continued to torture her with their mocking cries and shrill intrusions.
How did she remain sane in all of this misery?

Her fractious first born continued to irk. She did not seem to be compatible with her father, who she continued to regard as an 'Intruder, and treat with Hositlity. The child was frightened of the screeching birds, and most of all, the dark and ugly, outodoor 'toilet', under the dark and brooding pines.

The poor Wife tried to deal with the fractious daughter child, and the screeching of the Mynas as she slaved over the copper, which she had to light, to wash the clothes, and the concrete tubs, in which she had to rinse, and rinse again, with cold water, in the outdoor shelter that was her 'washhouse'.

Her chapped hands were testament to the hardship. Her hands bled, as she pegged out the clothes on the line, in the cold air of Winter.

Then, in pregnant heaviness, she laboured over the tubs, in the heat of Summer.
The coal fire range became a challenge for cooking as the heat increased in the small farm house kithchen.
The grissly daughter and the standoffish Husand/Father, became her nightly juggling points.


The wife became demented, over the Myna birds screeching, the whining child, the husband off all day on his 'farming' tasks.

"If the baby does not turn around, we will have to cut it from your body. It will not live, but your chances of survival are increased." What chilling words, for a small statured woman, alone, and in grief still, from her recent bereavement, of a child taken from her.


The Large Son was born, after a protracted labour, in a small country Hospital. The Wife almost died, as her options of delivery or death, were given. No modern facilites available. I do believe the Large Son, set some type of record, for that Hospital. It probably stands to this day.

"Hard labour, seeming due reward, for a wayward wife, with guilty secrets and a 'Duty to fulfil'.

The 'Deal' did not last.

The Wife left, when the Large Son was quite young.

A Divorce was the outcome.

Or, one could say "The Deal Folded".



.

Sense and Scents

I had a friend, who has passed out of my life, now, as some friends tend to do.

We moved our Country of Residence, and I lost touch with this friend. I often think of her, and I did value our friendship. She was gentle, kind, loving, and extemely fiesty, and strong.

I met her when my daughter was born, and we remained friends for a good few years.
She gave birth to another son, and another daughter, after our meeting, at the birth of her second son, and my only daughter, who was my youngest child.

I so admired her spirit, and her strength, in the face of her life's trials.
Her eldest son, was the image of her husband. Her husband had been raised in an orphanage, and had not known his parents. He had flaming red hair, from what parent, or ancestor, he had no idea, and had no desire to have any children. He had had siblings, he said, and they had been adopted by relatives, but no one of them had wanted the small, skinny, red haired little boy.

She told me that he had stormed out of their flat, when he learned she was pregnant with their first child. He was adamant he did not want children, to bring into this cruel world. He felt that his red hair had stopped his chances of adoption.

When their eldest son was born, in his image, with his flaming red hair, he was stunned to find he was totally beguiled with the child!
As his son grew, it seemed he developed a strange relationship with the child. He almost seemed to resent how much love and affection he felt for this son, born in his image. It was as if he loved him, but tried desperately not to show that love, or the depth of his feeling.

There ensued a gap of four years, when my friend failed to concieve another child, though she longed for another baby, as a sibling to her eldest son.
By the time her second son was born, the eldest son was almost five years old.

The second born resembled his beautiful dark haired mother. He had her wide brown eyes and her ready smile. He appeared quite different from his blue eyed, red haired older brother.

As time went by, the older son seemed, to outside observers, (such as myself, and my husband, and children) a somewhat 'different' child. He could be quite callous, and mean, to his little brother. He seemed to engineer events, where his little brother came to harm. The hand through the washing machine wringer. The game of "Let's gas up the truck" wherein he poured the motor mower petrol down a funnel into his smaller brother's mouth.

Their gorgeous dog's pup, who was "hit by a car" ~ except there was no car. The puppy was in a plastic bag, and mysteriously bashed to death. He denied he had done it, but my friend knew there was no other possibility.

By then, a third son had been born to the family, a beautiful blond haired, blue eyed boy, who seemed to be immune to his older brother's meanness and nasty tricks.

Thier father brought a baby rabbit home, a caualty of a hunting trip. My friend, who had a very soft and loving heart, hand reared the orphaned rabbit. It became her constant companion, hopping out to the clothesline, following her about the house. The sons appeared to love the little rabbit, as she did.

My friend found the rabbit dead, crushed by the hutch, which had seemed to fall upon the small creature. She could not understand how it could have happened, but her second son told her his older brother had done it. She did not want to believe it was so, but after the puppy incident, she knew in her heart it was true.

After the birth of her daughter, when she almost died, she had a tubal ligation, so there would be no more babies for her. She could not risk the chance of her dying, should she have more children.
She had grave fears for her eldest son's well-being, and she feared for his future mental wellbeing.

Her husband seemed to react with strange behaviour. She found out he had had an affair. It seemed uncharacteristic.

Their eldest son reacted to life with even more bizarre behaviour patterns.

My friend woke early one morning, with a strong perfume invading her nostrils.
There was a horrible sickly, sweet smell, almost like vanilla.

She lay in bed, sniffing the air, and she knew the 'scent' was not a good one.
Her instincts, her sense, told her she would not like the cause of this peculiar smell.

She delayed getting out of bed, as long as she could. Then she saw her eldest son's face, stricken and guilty, peering into the bedroom door, from the passage.

He stammered. He had tried to make coffee. He had boiled water, in a saucepan. He took the hot pot from the stove, and placed it upon the linoleum floor. It had melted a huge hole in the linoleum, which had caused the smell.

Not really such a bizarre behaviour.

It seemed to be a pivotal point, in her son's life, and her husband's curious disintegration into some form of madness.

He threatened suicide. He went on massive drinking binges. He was never physically abusive, but his mental violence increased.

My friend left him. I don't know what became of her, or her children.
We were in the throes of moving countries, and I lost touch with her.
She is often in my thoughts today.

Her sense, and her scents.

Blues

A lonley woman stands pegging out her washing in the still morning cool.

She looks at the clear early morning blue of the cloudless sky, and is reminded of her mother's eyes, which were just the colour of this early morning clear paleish blue sky.

A wash of forlorn loneliness for her mother sweeps over the woman. Still, after thirteen long years, the sting, the ache, of missing her mother remains, as sharp and painful as ever.

She remembers the man who fell in love with her mother. He used to sing "Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?" to her mother every time he saw her. It became a sort of joke and her friends and work colleagues teased her mother about the man. He had curly gold hair, and a wide smile, and bluer than Burmese-blue-sapphire eyes, which sparkled with joy, whenever he looked at her mother.

The woman remembered, that as a child, she had liked this man, whose simple adoration of her mother had seemed so kind and true, and just plain loving. She remembered thinking, that if her father could not be in her life, this man would be alright. He had none of the guile, or slyness some other men seemed to hold. She felt he would cherish and treasure her mother, in a way she deserved.

This man, who sang or whistled with joy around her mother, was a hardworking man. He had no wife or children of his own. The child the woman was then, did not understand why this good man was alone.

Now, she gazes up at the blue sky, and sees that perhaps the man was thought to be too 'simple' too 'uncomplicated'. She does not doubt that his love for her mother was true, but on reflection, his intellect would probably not have equalled her mother's, which was quick and restless and ever questing for knowledge.

Another man, with foxy thin features and sly, muddy brown eyes, also fell in love with her mother. A man who had no right to love her mother. He already had a wife, sons, of his own.

As a child the woman had detested this man. The man once told her mother that if looks could kill, her daughter would have surely had him long dead. It was true.

It ended in tears, with her mother's beautiful blue eyes crying. She held no illusions that the man would or could, leave his wife and young sons. She did not wish another broken family, with children to mourn the loss of their father.

Years later, when the woman understood more of the causes of her mother's grief and pain, she remembered the shadows, which often passed across her mother's morning-blue, mourning-blue eyes. She wished her mother's life could have been different.

Wished sometimes that the simple man, with his singing, could have cherished her mother and loved her forever.

Looking up at the later, bluer sky, clouding over, the woman recognized that life's blues are often like the swiftly changing skies.

The Wild Wind.

You cannot see the wind, he said.
I replied, I can.

You will only see it's tracks, he said
I replied, That may be so.

But I can see it in your eyes, I said.
I can see it in your smile.

I know you'll soon be gone from here.
I see your smile is false.

I see your restless breaths, like ripples in the corn,
A swathe across a meadow.

The shadow of the wind~chased cloud
Is written on your face.

His protests sighed, the gusting wind delayed,
His knowledge of his going.

In the night I heard the wind, rise, and call his name
I saw the wind, a master with a slave.

He is gone of course, at the beckon of the wind
I hope his journey, with the wind will keep him safe.