On Being An Adult

On being an adult.

It is not so bad being an adult.  Being an elderly adult is a different thing altogether.

The pain from your joints never lets you forget that you have become elderly. Your joints swell, and ache, and deform,  unless you are very lucky.

Your memory has lapses...forgetting the names of plants. Forgetting the names of your children's childhood friends. Forgetting small family anecdotes.
Nothing major, but you still wonder where that memory went? How could I forget that??

My children seemed to forget more of their childhoods than I. I remember much of my childhood...or do I really?
I find myself wondering if the memories are programmed from family stories, or from real memories.
It is very disconcerting, as I realise that memories are coloured by the folklore of retelling. How much is reality, and how much is recounted memory from other  adults?

My memories of childhood are very mixed. I have good memories and quite dark memories. None of them abusive as such, but some of them damaging by implication. "You are so bumble footed" "You are clumsy""You are knock knee ed" " You have an awkward shape"
All guaranteed to rob me of self confidence, none of it intentional, I am sure.
However it took it's toll, and the mixed up me is the result.

I remember a night when a man said to my mother "Isn't she beautiful?" and my mother answered doubtfully, "Yes?" I felt simultaneously crushed and happy. Happy that someone outside my circle thought I looked nice, but crushed that my mother didn't seem to be convinced, as to my beauty.

Ego I guess. We never know how others perceive us.
I always strived to make my children feel they were perfect, and I smothered them with physical affection, and daily affirmations of how much I loved them, and respected them as both children, and adults, when they grew to adulthood. I loved my son's chosen partner. I loved my daughter's expartner.
Now, I love my son in law. and I still love my son's expartner.

I have a wonderful Uncle, who turns 100 this year. He is still in charge of his faculties, and very much aware of life around him. His lovely wife is still going strong, and is partly responsible for his continuing  good health.

Adulting is indeed a very hard passage in our lives. Old adulting is even harder, and not for the faint hearted. Or the slipped fart,  or the wet myself unexpectedly brigade.
You never know when sabotage might strike your poor unsuspecting bodies!

I hope I die before too many indignities attack me.

A Sea Story

A Sea Story.

The sea lashed itself to fury,
as it thrashed upon the wounded, aching, sand.
It withdrew itself, with ebbing, boiling, rage.
An arrogant refusal to apologise
or retreat, from confrontation.

The orphaned, uprooted kelp
lay helpless upon the shore.
Knowing, it is an incidental victim,
of rage, of deep, dark, disturbing,
unrest that lies within, the sea's
deepest, primeval, emotions.

The sea, thunders again to shore
Shouting! 'You dare to threaten, challenge me?
I will crush you, demolish your very being!'
'Ah, but you must retreat', I reply.
'You cannot remain, and,.
If I dance beyond your reach,
your threats are idle, imptoent'.

Who would dare to taunt the sea?
Who, could be so foolish? So ignorant of danger?
The sibilant hiss of the sea subsiding,
whispered of revenge to come,
Hissed, of eons to keep the rage alive.
"I will triumph" the waves declared.
"Revenge is mine" as it crashed upon the shore.

My depths are greater than yours.

I will outlast your petty thoughts.

Your transient atoms.

I will exact revenge, and you,

You may beg for mercy at my tides.

I am not lenient, nor forgiving.

You may yet ride the tides

of my emotions.

You may yet ride the flows of

my eternal oceans.

you shall return to all my swells

or surges of evolution,

Tribute to Beautiful Sheree

Trying to write a long-formulating post, to my original blog.
It seems I cannot access the Life's Free Treats blog, so here it will be.

I wanted to post a tribute to a beautiful woman I knew, whose name is Sheree.

I met Sheree when we gave birth to our third children. She gave birth to her third son, and I was lucky enough to give birth to my first daughter. We were in the same hospital, in the same maternity ward.

We just 'clicked' and had many laughs in the ward before we were discharged. I had a slight complication, but Sheree had a larger complication. We vowed to keep in touch, and we did.

Her third son was so handsome and dark, much like his beautiful mother. She had beautiful long dark hair, cascading down her shoulders, in glorious profusion. Her small dark haired son had hair aplenty, and a cute upturned nose which made him appear angelic. His  immediate older brother had red hair, just like their father. He was a very different looking child to his small newborn brother.

As they grew, the differences in personality were marked.

Sheree had gorgeous dark eyes, and with her long, almost chestnut hair, almost looked like a Gypsy. Or, perhaps what my vision of a Gypsy would be. Her beautiful light infused eyes with their brown and hazel lights dancing, were just breathtakingly dazzling.She was filled with light, and a love to embrace every living creature.

They had a gorgeous Boarder Collie bitch, who loved the children, and guarded them so devotedly. She had puppies. Some of the puppies died mysteriously.
A small pet rabbit died mysteriously.
The little dark haired 'gypsy' so often had  'accidents'.

Another small brother seemed to fare rather better. He was a blonde little boy, and he seemed to be immune from the 'accidents' that befell his older brother.

It was all very unsettling. What exactly, was going on?

I had a very nasty car accident, the week my lovely friend had her fourth chid, a gorgeous  daughter, who looked like her beautiful Gypsy mother, with dark eyes, and hair.
It was weeks before I could get to see the lovely little daughter.

I often think of Sheree, and wonder what happened to her after we lost touch.

Passage

She sat on the riverbank, close to the Rotunda.

It had been recently rejuvenated, with paint~ with a flair.
Colourful little touches embellished the stark white, on the upright stands, and the interior of the canopy.

Occasionally, on Sundays,  bands used the Rotunda, to play oom-pa-pa music, with trumpets and trombones and uniformed men, looking rather self conscious. A few people even came to listen, and, on sunny days, when the grassy banks were not damp, they would sit and clap, in small desultory bursts of applause.

This day, there was no band. Only the ducks were present, going about their duckish business. Paddling about, seeking who knew what, amidst the water, of the river, as it slowly meandered along.

It was Autumn, and the large leaves of the trees lining the banks were golden and orange and pale lemony-lime, spent greens, as they fell onto the grass and into the water. Their season for being had ended, and now they were destined to be part of the everchanging cycle of the river, the water, forever moving along. Life and death, the neverending cycle of the seasons. So calm, and so serene, as they floated by. She wondered idly, if they knew their season had ended. Wondered at the brief life they had had.

Then she thought about the wonderful striking, almost dazzling, dizzying,  shades, of limey greens, so arresting in their bright youth, of the Spring, when they burst forth, from the bare branches, and spread their wonderful canopy of rich green dapples in the sunlight, as the Spring turned to Summer, and the wonderful blooms became part of the splendour of the trees, the parents, to all the glory. The flowers looking like bright pink candles or pyramids of colour, so pretty, and enchanting.

She thought about her life, and the sadness she felt. She wished she was a fallen leaf, to be carried away by the river's flow. She would feel no more pain. She could just fade into the passage of nature, and not have to feel pain, or sorrow, for her losses.

The shadows were long, and it was suddenly chilly. She stood up, and wondered how she could return to her life, which seemed so pointless. She wondered if she could ever really feel again, if the pain and agony would ever end.

She tried to tell herself, Time is a passage, just like this river. It never stays the same, and moves along at it's own pace. For now, for her, the passage was much to slow. She wished the river was deeper, or fast flowing, and she could fling herself into the water, and be swept along, with leaves, to another destiny.

Storm

Her Uncle had owned the bach until his death, and he had lived there on his own, after his wife, who was her Aunt by blood, had died. After her tragic bereavement, her cousin, Gabrielle, had offered her the use of the bach,which remained deserted for much of the year.

The family, now comprised of the cousins, two sons, Martin, and Kelvin, and their sister Gabrielle, and their families, used the bach for occasional summer weekends, but for the main part, the little two bedroom dwelling remained unused. The old, leaning and greying stakes, with rotting strands of twine, in the back yard, were all that remained of her Uncle's valiant attemps at gardening. It seemed impossible that he had once grown tomatoes, and potatoes in the sandy waste, now filled with Gazanias, and weeds, Pigfaces, encroaching Lupins, and tussock grass.

This area was next to the dilapidated, and falling-apart remains of Uncle Ted's shed, which he had called his Garage. The old Morris had rarely been housed there, but had stood on the driveway, leading up to the doors. Uncle Ted had gutted and scaled his fish out in the garden, and he often collected kelp, to dig into the garden, and he claimed it was the reason he could coax tomatoes and even potatoes from the sandy waste he called a garden.


She was really tired, after her long drive, down from the city, and the turn onto the side road and up the rutted old road, that led to the Beach Bach, was a welcome sign that she was soon to rest. She parked her car at the bottom of what used to be the driveway, for her Uncle's little old Morris, and which was little more than tussock and sand now, and hauled her bags up the sloping front area, that had once been a lawn of sorts.

When she unlocked the back door, she smelled the peculiar scent of stale air mingled with salt and sand. She was instantly glad she had brought her own sheets, pillows, and two quilts. She stripped the bed, and made it anew, with her fresh linen, and quilts.

It was almost dusk, and she stepped outside the back door, to smell the salty air, and feel the fresh wind from the ocean. She could see the curve of the small bay, with it's bright sandy collar, and the gentle surf frills, as each wave broke gently onto the sand. The jagged black, and smoother grey, rocks at each end of the bay seemed to sit as guardians, over the little bay.

She flipped on the Mains switch at the power board, and wondered that the local authorities allowed the cousins to keep the Electicity supply available for use when needed.

She realised how tired she was, and the fact that she had more or less forgotten about food. She hauled the cooler from her car up the slope and took out the eggs, bread, tea and milk. There was an elderly refigerator, which seemed to be working, judging by the noises it was making, once she had turned on the electricity. It had a huge handle on the door, and she put her eggs and milk onto a shelf. She found an ancient toaster in a cupboard, which had doors on each side, though only one element seemed to be working.

She decided to have a boiled egg, and a slice of toast for her tea. There were three small saucepans, and a small frypan, in the cupboard below the sink, and the electric stove had two elements that glowed red, when she tried them all. She made a mental note, to get herself a fully functional automatic toaster as soon as she could, and also buy some butter, which she had forgotten she might need for the toast. The water from the tap was very reluctant, but eventually ran clear enough for her to risk using it for her tea. The electric jug worked to make a cup of tea, but it seemed to take forever to boil the water.

She decided to forgo a bath, as there was no shower, and fell into bed, and into a deep, weary sleep.


She awoke suddenly to a loud noise, sat up in bed in alarm, and could not at first remember where she was. The wind was a howling demon, and seemed about to enter the bach. It whistled and moaned at the doors and windows. She heard the roar and thunder of the surf, hurling itself onto the beach. It sounded so loud and close, she felt it might enter the bach, then remembered she was above the bay, and it surely could not rise high enough, to flood into her little sanctuary.

She pulled the quilts about her head, and fell asleep once more.


The morning dawned clear, calm, and bright, with not a cloud or any evidence of the night's fury, apart from the stakes in the garden having fallen over, and the twine being ripped from the stakes. The Lupins at the edge of the once-upon-a-time garden had been bent and wilted by the winds, but the sandy drifts appeared to be a normal part of the landscape.

As she looked out at the sunny day, she decided to walk down to the beach, and work up an appetite. She dressed in jeans and a T Shirt and decided not to wear sandals, since it was warm, and the sand felt soothing under her bare feet.

She crossed the dunes to the sand of the bay, and noticed all the drifts of kelp, lying thick and tossed along the bay. There were great piles of kelp, seemingly ripped from the ocean floor, by the fury and rage of the storm the night before. The stipes and blades lay strewn in heaps upon the sand.

A small, sad, silver fish lay dead, caught unawares by the ocean's fury, perhaps thinking it had found shelter in the forest of kelp, before it was plundered by the storm's ferocity, and hurled from it's haven, onto a sandy, hostile shore. She saw the glint of the fish among the kelp, and realised what it was, and what might have happened.

She noted that the waves seemed to have been thrown further up the shore than normal, and the holes in the newly wet sand, told of small creatures, whose homes in the dry sand have been invaded, flooded by the unusual influx of high waters.

As she walked along the bay, looking at the great piles of uprooted kelp, she saw something glinting in the morning sun. It appeared to be silver, and vaguely familiar. A great pile of kelp lay in a mound, and she suddenly realised what was silver.

As the waves lapped their foamy edges about the thick straps of kelp, and silver, she realised it was a high heeled sandal, in fact, pale blue and silver.

Incongruously, it was strapped to a foot. As she looked closer, she could see another, unclad foot, in the sand, under the kelp.

With mounting horror, she followed the line of kelp, and saw the long strands of brown hair, the side of a face, and the knotted, silky, pale blue scarf, around a slender neck.

An arm was flung out, fingers curled towards some unseen goal.

The kelp formed almost a blanket of modesty about the obviously naked body of the female, who lay upon the beach. The ripples of the waves poured foamy edges over the kelp, and gently rocked the naked foot back and forth.


She reeled back in horrified realisation, that this was a dead person.
She remembered the howling fury of the night before.
The waves crashing and thundering on the shore.
Was it outrage at this woman's death?
How had she died?


This may or may not be continued...

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.

The Stranger's Cat.

The work was hard. Gut wrenchingly, heartbreakingly, hard!

Harder than either of them had anticipated. In ways, largely unseen, it took it's toll. Both physically, and mentally.

The long hours of the days, beginning early, stretching into the late night, often after midnight before the stairs could be climbed, so wearily, so slowly, and the blessed collapse into the warm bed, could begin to to untangle knots of weariness.

Or simply bring an initial oblivion that was neither restful, nor healthy.

There were the many exits and entrances to be checked, double checked, to make sure they were all secure. Window locks to be checked, rechecked. The Garden area had to be checked to be clear, to be locked securely.

Overtiredness often prevented restful sleep. Sudden starts of wakefulness would ensue.
Had there been a noise? A tinkling of glass? Another broken window? Another break-in attempt?

The Country area was so much darker than the City had been. The far reaches of the huge car park area, shadowed, even darker, with the huge pine trees along the perimeters. The row of old, cobbled stables, which were no longer used, since there were no more horses to be stabled.

Homes now to the River Rats. An assortment of old bricks, Timber, Corrugated Iron sheets, broken furniture.
Rumour had it, that a previous owner had housed his pride and joy, an old Jaguar car, in one of the stables.
He seldom, then never, drove the car, but had loved to boast of the fact that he owned it.

One fine day, an admirer of Old Jaguar Cars came to visit, to ask if he could see the prize. Imagine the owner's horror, when he came to show off his pride and joy.
The River Rats had made mince meat of the engine's wiring. They had chewed the leather seats, making wonderfully comfortable homes for their many offspring. Even the woodwork on the dashboard had suffered. There was no part of the once precious vehicle which was untouched.

Locals sniggered, snide remarks about 'Just Deserts' were made about the greedy owner of the Country Hotel.
The locals were heard to murmur such things as " Monument to Ratshit" and
"Rodent Motel".

All that was gone when the new owners, the young couple, with such High Hopes, and Eager Dreams, took on the new prospect, of the Country Hotel.

Each afternoon, the female half of the couple, tired beyond belief, crept up the stairs to have her two hours respite, between Lunch time meals and Evening Dinner, if there were guests, which there often were. If no guests, most often Staff to be fed... after all it was a "Country Hotel", and there were no Takeaway shops to provide food or sustenance for hungry staff.

The Village had a Fish and Chip shop, but hours were limited, and appetites were not always inclined to their fare. The 'Missus' in the Hotel did not 'do' hamburgers, nor meals, apart from staff or guests.

There was a weekend Bistro Restaurant for diners. A chef/cook presided, & Bistro Type Meals were on the menu. Popular. A source for many bitter tears on a Sunday, when the 'Missus' had to clean the grease spattered kitchen, deep fryers, grill plates. The Extractor Fan. A monumental task.

The 'Missus' learnt to despise the 'Bistro/fast food kitchen' with it's fatty detritus, it's film of filth on every surface. The filthy linen, left, smeared & greased, to be cleansed of all grime, before next Restaurant Night.

Every Sunday was spent in tears, of despair, at the futility of it all. She felt she paid far too high a price for her money.
Perhaps if she had not had pets, she would have lost her mind.
Her GP advised her to change her life. Her physical problems were directly caused by her occupation.

One day, she sat in her 'sanctuary' upstairs, watching the passing parade of the small village, below

She noticed a large truck, roll to a stop outside the small cluster of shops in the street. She saw a Ginger cat, appear to disappear under the wheel of the huge truck. She looked again, but saw no cat run, saw no more evidence of the cat.

She waited, feeling very unsure. She watched. The truck driver emerged from the Butcher, and started his vehicle. He had walked around the truck, as if he, too, had felt perhaps an animal may be hiding there.
As he began to roll, slowly off, there tumbled out a Ginger cat, from a wheel well.

The watcher, from the Hotel, sprang to her feet, raced downstairs & rushed accross the street.
The Driver, sprang from his seat, & ran to the back of his truck, just as the watcher arrived.
"Oh My God" he said. "I had a feeling there was a cat there, but I could not find it!"
"I know" the watcher replied, "I was watching. I could not believe it was still there!"
She scooped the cat into her arms. "I will take it to the vet. I have no idea whose cat it is, but it needs help!"

She raced to the vet, which was close, in the Village.
The vet took one look decided it had internal injuries.
"Hold it for me?" she asked the watcher.
"Of course" the watcher replied.
"It's gums are pale, it has internal bleeding, injuries."

As the watcher held the cat, it died. She was so glad to have been able to hold the poor animal, to try to give it comfort. Tell it she loved it.

She knew her days as a Country Hotelkeeper were severly numbered.
In days that followed she shed many tears for the Stranger's Cat. No one came forward to claim the poor little Ginger Cat.

A Page for Her.

The ebb and the flow, seem, somehow, uneven. There appears to be more ebb, than flow.
She knows this must be an illusion, but she cannot get past the notion, the sheer enormity, of the ebbing.

Oh, they say, you must get on with things.

Oh, she thinks, who will make me? And laughs, slyly, to herself at the childish thought.

Life might seem a pain, they say, But the alternative is worse.

Oh yeah?, she thinks, Who says so? Right now, the alternative looks really, really, attractive! I could embrace the alternative, as long as I could go, with no pain!
This pain of living, is too much. This pain of mind, is too much. This pain of physical being, is too much!!
On second thoughts, I could take the pain of going.
As long as I was gone.


The ebbing is shaded with images of children, neglected, abused, blighted, forever.
The ebbing includes the rabbits, trapped in cages.
The beautiful tropical Parrots, captive in cages.
The bears, trapped, in cages.

The ebbing contains the starved, malnourished, trust-abused, beaten, domestic animals. The ebbing is filled with the thoughts that they are still willing and able to forgive, and love.

There is more sadness, than pleasure, for her, in a rainbow. It has come to represent a false promise of hope.
After all, what is it, really?
Just light refracted, reflected, arranged in colours which delude.
She is certain, the pitiful range of colours observed by human eye, are miniscule.
She is also certain, she will never see the myriad other colours reflected there.

She realises she has lost her Rose Coloured Glasses, somewhere out on the plains. Perhaps they were swept away on the rivers of vast water.
Perhaps they were lost on the ebb.

It somehow seems, her tide will never rise again...

Lost Child

The small child that hangs on the wall
Seems to bear no resemblance to me.
Who was that child?
Confident, loved? I don't see that.
Hurt, lost, abandoned?
With time, perception altered.

Or is this the overlayed,
Imprint on that image,
With the benefit of hindsight?

She sits, with a still smile
fixed forever on her small face.
The delicate tints of the colourist,
Interpreting the given details.
The accoutrements fake,
Added, to try to bring that smile.

This portrait, hung on the wall.
For most of my life, a constant.
I still look upon that smiling face,
And know the false picture
presented there.

The Sea

The sea lashed itself to fury,
as it thrashed upon the wounded, aching, sand.
It withdrew itself with ebbing, boiling, rage.
An arrogant refusal to apologise
or retreat, from confrontation.


The orphaned, uprooted kelp
lay helpless upon the shore.
Knowing, it is an incidental victim,
of rage, of deep, dark, disturbing,
unrest that lies within, the sea's
deepest, primeval, emotions.


The sea, thunders again to shore
Shouting! 'You dare to threaten, challenge me?
I will crush you, demolish your very being!'
'Ah, but you must retreat', I reply.
'You cannot remain, and,.
If I dance beyond your reach,
your threats are idle, impotent'.


Who would dare to taunt the sea?
Who, could be so foolish? So ignorant of danger?
The sibilant hiss of the sea subsiding,
whispered of revenge to come,
Hissed, of eons to keep the rage alive.
"I will triumph" the waves declared.
"Revenge is mine" as it crashed upon the shore.

Who cannot retreat, beyond such threat?
We like to think, we are beyond such monstrosity.
We are puppets, dancing to some preordained rhythm
A dance upon a savage tide
Which is well outside our control.

Old Man's Life.

He is 98 years old. His wife died some 20 years before, and he has lived alone ever since. He kept good health for most of his life.

In fact, his health was better than his wife's. She could not have children, was dreadfully upset when she found out she needed a hysterectomy, at only 33 years of age, dashing any hopes she had that there may be a miracle. No one seemed to know exactly why she could not have children. Or, if they did, no one ever told her. Certainly, cancer was never mentioned.

They were quiet respectful people, who didn't think to question authority figures, such as Doctors. She went quietly, bravely, for her surgery, came home and recovered, and they didn't discuss it further, she and her husband. Just accepted that that was their fate.

She did once ask him if he would like a divorce, so he could find another woman, who might bear his child. He scoffed at her, picked her small body up, and twirled her around in the warm kitchen. He told her that it seemed he had loved her all his life, and he was content to keep on loving her.

He tended his gardens, selling his vegetables in his little shop. She would help when she could, and she took in sewing to help with the money. They had a happy life together, for the most part. He with his vegetables, she with her sewing and her cooking. In the evenings they often sat on the veranda, reading or talking, as they watched the sun set.

Sometime she would catch him talking to his tomatoes, his cheerful, soft, voice coaxing them along. She really laughed when she caught him singing to his pumpkins, his light tenor voice so happy & tuneful. He sometimes sang as he dug his potatoes too, though it was not such free flowing singing then.

Then she got breast cancer. There was more cutting away of her being, more hospital time. She came home even smaller, and was very quiet. Sometimes he saw she was crying, so he crept away, to leave her to her private grief.

A few more years passed. Another cancer, the second breast cut away. Less of her than ever. Somehow she never seemed to regain her strength after that surgery. She just grew smaller, sadder, till she finally gave up the cancer race.

After his wife died, he never had the same enthusiasm for his garden. He sold his little shop, and though he still grew vegetables for himself, he never grew enough to sell, though whenever he had surplus, he would give it away, to neighbours or friends. He would still occasionally hum a little tune to the pumpkin or the cucumber vines.

Cancer had had it's little nibbles at him, but nothing compared to her trials. He had several skin cancers cut off his face. One on his ear, another on his nose, which required a skin graft. All those years out in his gardens, they told him at the Hospital.

"You must wear your hat! You must wear sunscreen! Stay out of the sun!"

Then at 96 he had been told that he had prostate cancer. He went to hospital, had tests, surgery, more tests, more tests, some sort of treatment. He was not sure what exactly it had all meant, but finally he was told he should be alright.

Somehow it seemed slightly ridiculous to think he was still alive and OK after all these years.

He often wondered "For what? or why?" There were more times lately that he felt confused and thought life was very strange.

His hair was snow white and very thick still. He wondered about baldness, and could remember his father had seemed always bald to him, when he was a child.

He now had a little home assistance. He could still manage to get his own meals, but he had help to clean his house. A person would come to take him for Doctor's appointments or his eye tests. He had someone take him to do his shopping, because he occasionally became a little confused, or forgot what he needed to restock.

Now he refused to buy new clothes. What was the point, was they way he looked at it. He still had enough to clothe his body, and keep him warm when winter came. Never mind about fashion. "At my age?" he laughed, when one of his care workers had asked him if he would like to look at some new clothes, or shoes. This was said, as she glanced at his old baggy track pants, and his elderly slippers, which was his customary footwear.

Today, he had got up early to have his shower, and pack his little bag, he was taking to the hospital. He didn't need much and he had got dressed with the careworker to help him, if he needed any assistance.

When they got to the Hospital, the nurses were somewhat puzzled as to why he had his bag? The careworker was a new girl, she had been told he was to be overnight in hospital.
"No no," the nurses said, "He is only in for a checkup today. He won't be staying."

"Will you be alright?" his careworker asked.
"I don't know.. someone usually comes with me." he seemed a little bewildered. He had prepared himself for an overnight stay. He couldn't quite work out what was going on.

The careworker rang to find out further instructions. She felt she could not leave this dear, bewildered old gentleman on his own. She had another client, so could not remain.

She was instructed to leave him there. Public transport was mentioned. He couldn't possibly manage that on his own. She felt terribly torn.
She thought she just might give this job away.
There was increasing heartache. Money was being pinched for services. Expenses were being 'trimmed' and 'cut'.

The nurses looked quite disgusted. The careworker felt terrible. She could see the nurses discussing the situation in their little glass cubicle.

The Old Man sat quietly, clutching his little old bag, looking at his slippers.

Ruffled Night

This is NOT a Chapter of the Book.

This stand alone.

Ruffled Night.

She sat at the bus stop, shivering, wishing she had a car, or a lift to this party.
It was bitingly cold, & she was only wearing light clothing, under her light coat.

She had been invited, & had not intended going. The empty gnawing in her mind had kept her thinking of the party. Thinking of the anonymity of her attendance. There was a good chance she would not be recongnized or really noticed.

How had she become friends with a girl who worked for a Funeral Parlour? She couldn't really remember.

As she sat, shivering in the intense cold, a car pulled up alongside the bus stop.
A window wound down, the driver leaning over, asking, out of the passenger side, if she would like a lift?

She debated, decided she didnt give a bugger, one way or the other. What the hell, she was determined to destroy herself anyway, so "What the Hell".

"I would love a lift. I am going to a party."
"Could I come too?" Eager, happy.
"Sure." She didnt give a damn. If that would make him happy.

He opened the door, she got into the relatively warm car, settling into the passenger seat.

She could almost feel him shaking with excitement, his bodily vibrations quite stong, almost shaking the car.

" I want to go & change my shoes" he said. She vaguely thought this a little strange, but she didn't really care. She had plotted her evening, & his movements meant little to her. "Fine" she said.

He did a U turn, on the street, though the markings on the road indicated U turns were forbidden. He pulled into a driveway, not so far from the bus stop. She sat waiting, as he leapt into the building, turning on a light in a room, at the rear of the actual house.

She listened as a young child's voice piped up, declaring "Vince is home!" "What are you doing Vince? He is cleaning his shoes!! He must have a date!! Ha Ha has Vince found a girl to go out with!"

"Shut up, you little sh!t!" " Dont you dare look out there! This is nothing to do with you, bugger off you little @rsehole!"
" Nyah nyah, Vince has got a girl!!"

Further muffled swearing, then Vince leapt back into his car, gunning the motor, & roaring backwards at 40 km out of the driveway, back onto the main road.

Off to the party, vague memories, directions being given. She was a little shakey on the addess, but eventually they arrived, & she could see some people she knew.

"Hello Hello!" "This is Vince"
"Who?" whispered by a friend.
"Oh I don't know, I picked him up from the side of the road, haha!"

"Well how do you do, Vince, from the side of the road?"

Leaving Vince on the long verandah, in the dark shadows. Moving into the crowded rooms of the house. The bright light of the lounge room, with many, milling people.

The thought that "Tonight I will end this pain. Tonight it will all cease. All I need to do is drink enough, and it will all be finished."

Meeting a familiar face, his presence large & familiar, somehow almost a comfort.
A surry of confusion. This is not the person I came with. This is someone from my past? I know this person? I trust this person?

Steering her to the bedroom, a misty vague reality. The tumble of bedsheets, the pillows tossed about, the pleas of "Don't Don't, What the hell are you doing?"
**********************

The sheets, the blood, the horrified faces. The questions, the "What the Hell?s"
The police don't really want to know.

"Did you know this person? Did you have a 'relationship' with this person? Of any sort? What do you mean by casual? What do you mean by non personal? What do you mean by aquaintance only? What are you trying to say, when you mention you thought you were 'friends'?"

"Did this mean your friend, could share your bed? Did this mean you were in a sexual relationship? What do you mean, 'Not as far as you knew?'"
"Are you trying to imply 'he took advantage of you?'. How can you say this, when you were clearly under the influence of alcohol? You might have been offering it up? Isn't that the truth?"

"Whatever you say it wasn't like that at all. But forget it. I can't be bothered, & I don't want to pursue it. Please just leave it. Leave it all."

"So, you are dropping any charges? Is that what you are trying to say?"

"It seems to be the right thing to say, so 'Yes, that is what I am saying'."

"Well, that is good, we can all go home early. No paperwork, & no dingbat moaner to deal with!"

"If she hadn't been a nutter, I wouldn't have minded giving her one!"

New Cuts. Chapter Seven

Christy hastily gathered her curly hair into a bundle, & tied it up at the back of her head.

Her thoughts were; 'I am going to be late for work. I have to get this hair cut!'

"Goodnight Gran", she called as she ran out the door.
She would have to walk to work.
She could share her mother's car, but only when her mother was not using the car, and tonight, her mother was using the car.

She strode out the gate, onto the rough road's edge, & began to walk quickly, in an almost jog.
The night air was heavy and cold, and she knew there would be frost later.
Never mind, she thought, I will be warm enough from the walk, and the work room will be soon enough, too hot.

Christy was working a job that was a 'fill-in'. Not her chosen field, but an employment she could use, until her chosen career path opening became available. She could not help but feel it was somehow cheating. She had been honest in her application for the job. She was assured it was OK.

She felt a certain guilt at the fact, that because of her academic achievements, she had a higher pay scale than some of her more experienced work mates. Somehow the fact that they were more experienced than she was, & were possilby faster than she was, made it seem inequitable.

When she ventured to voice those thoughts, she was told to "Shut up" And "Dont think!"

So here she was, jogging down the road towards her work for the evening.

A long, silver car slowed beside her. The driver leaned over, & spoke through the wound down window... " Can I give you a ride?"

Christy had been dreading this encounter. He had offered her rides before. He kept offering her rides. She always refused.

There was something almost insect-like, in his bloated body sitting on the blue seat of his enormous car. It totally repelled her, & she felt a base, almost primeval fear, at the sight & sound of him.

"No thankyou." she said. " I am almost there. No need for a ride."

At that moment, looming, almost out of the ether, was the figure of Ross.

"She doesn't need a lift. I am walking her to work! You can bugger off Valther. She doesn't need the likes of you, around! What are you, a pervert, you old bugger!"

Where had Ross come from?
Was he watching her? How come he had showed up, just when she felt threatened?

He moved to her side, & she was grateful for his presence, in spite of her resolve not to see him again.
She hated to feel vulnerable. She hated the thought she was under observation~by anyone.

Valther excellerated away from them, with a spurt of his wheels.

Christy said nothing, & Ross just faded into the darkness.

"Thankyou" Christy called, feebly.


There was no answering reply. He had gone, faded into the night.
She was at the back gates to work for the evening.

She thought "I have to get this hair cut!"
But a part of her did not see why...

Prying Eyes Chapter Six

The heat was shimmering off the road, so unseasonal, for this time of year.
Farley Granger sat and rocked slowly in his wicker chair.

His panama hat sat upon his balding head. It shaded neither his head, nor his eyes, since the sun did not shine this far under his wide verandah roof.

The creaks and muffled squeaks, of his gently rocking chair, reminded him of his joints, as he rose each day, clicking and creaking, hobbling to his bathroom, to wash, then dress slowly, patiently.

He prided himself on the fact that he still dressed well. No matter how warm the day, he still donned his waistcoat, over his neatly pressed shirt. He still wore the suit trousers, with sharp creases, which he carefully pressed under the mattress each night.

Which reminded him, he must see Harry Copesteake, at the Butcher's, to get some more of the brown paper strips he used to line his trousers, for the pressing, under the mattress.
Harry had a great huge roll of the brown paper, for wrapping the meat, and he had told Farley he was welcome to as much as he required.

Never mind that Harry's son Russell, frowned, whenever he came into the shop, to accept the free parcels of blade steak, sausages, and mince, along with great sheets of the brown paper.

Farley knew that Russell had copped plenty of teasing over his name, Copesteake, and the fact that his father was the local Butcher, and he was in line to take over the family business. His nickname had been "Steak Eyes" at school.
If the teasers were feeling particularly mean, it was "Rissole Steakeyes".


Should he, Farley, wish to venture out, into the streets of the town, he always wore his suit coat, and lately, a cravatt. He found the tying of his ties somewhat of a chore these days. His arms seemed reluctant to reach forward, so that his increasingly fumbly fingers could manage the twists the knot required, to tie the tie.

He tried to keep the knotted ties completed, so that he only had to tighten them, once he had slipped them over his head.
Then, one day, he noticed Millie Petersen, the ex headmistress of the Infants, whose eyes were like small, beady, bird's eyes, which seemed to miss neither trick, nor an ex pupil.

Millie had stared piercingly at his tie, until he felt all hot and bothered.
Why was she staring? he wondered. As they chatted, he noticed her gimlet eyes would not leave a point below his chin.

When he got home, and peered into the mirror, it became abundantly clear, why Millie's gaze had fastened on his navy and red striped tie. There upon the red, slipping onto the navy, was the distinct dribble of egg yolk.

His lovely runny brekky egg had disgraced him! How had he not noticed? He had burned with shame, at home, in his small bathroom.
To think Millie, of all people, had to be the one to notice!
How humiliating. He had vowed to never wear a tie again.
Or have his beloved runny yolked eggs for breakfast.

Farley had hastened to Manson's Menswear, and demanded to see the range of cravatts. He had hastily selected four, snapped at the silly girl, that "NO! he did not require them delivered!"

He would take them now, and he was so upset, he had even paid cash! Not his usual "Put them on my Account!"


Now, as Farley sat dreaming his old man dreams, dozing lightly, on his slightly overheated front porch, he noticed Ross Fraser jogging past.

He wondered where he was off to, at this warm hour of the day. He must still be out of work, otherwise, why would he be on the street?
Farley thought Angus had got his son to work with him, on the painting lark. He didn't hold out much hope for the boy. Ever since he had reached his teenage years, he had seemed to run off the rails.

Farley remembered he had seen Ross with that pretty young girl, with all the red curls... what was her name? Oh, yes, Christy, that was it. Lived with her mother and Grandmother. There was a boy too wasn't there? a young lad..
Farley sought in his memory banks for the pieces.
What was happening to him? His memory had always been faultless.
It frightened him, sometimes, the fact that people seemed to be slightly out of his memory's reach.
Then he remembered, the young lad was keen to work at the local bicycle shop, hung about the place every day after school... yes... Steven, that was his name.

But, back to thoughts of Christy.
What was her mother thinking, letting her keep company with a 'bad lad' like Ross Fraser?

There were times when Farley was glad he and 'Mrs Granger', as he always referred to her, even in his mind, had never had children. At first they had wondered why. He felt that Marjorie, which was Mrs Granger's actual name, had been very sad, at first. Then as the years had passed, she became very anti children, declaring them to be nasty, dirty, cheeky, spiteful, creatures.

When Mrs Granger had died, from Thrombosis aged 50, it had almost been a relief, to Farley. They had seemed to have increasingly little to say to each other, and truth be told, Marjorie had become melacholy & extremely withdrawn, never going outside, even to the letterbox.

Having driven the school bus for those many years, there were times when Farley was inclined to agree with Mrs Granger's thoughts about the children. Especially when he felt the sting of a flung apple core, or the thunk of a half eaten sandwich, on the back of his neck, or his balding head, which happened more frequently towards the end of his career.

They might have made fun of him then, but now, from his vantage point on the very edge of town, he felt he had his finger on the pulse of most of their comings and goings. He could see almost everybody who came into the main street, and he knew more than they realised about a lot of their business.

He would just keep his vigils, and know what he knew.

Chapter Five, Smoke

Christy looked out, watching the curl of the smoke, from over the paddocks, from the chimneys, of the neighbour's house. She knew they had their fires burning, and it was a fine, almost windless evening.

Looking at the streak of the smoke, breaking into sudden curls, some distance up, from the chimneys, she could feel the chill of the still night air descending. There would surely be a frost later this evening.

She could still hear the screams, echoing inside her head, of her neighbour's daughter, her age, after all, who was being attacked by her bullying brother, on their way over to the cowshed, to help their father with the nightly milking.

She could still see Irene Mc Lintock, running accross the paddock, her long blond hair streaming out, as she ran. Her bully-brother Lenny, catching her, tackling her slender body, crashing her to the ground.

He yelled in victory, as he jumped up and down, upon her poor, slim, body. The bloodcurdling screams and cries for help, unanswered by her family, who should have been her greatest shield, her fiercest protectors.

Christy's Grandmother, looking from the dining room windows, drew a deep breath in horror.

"That girl will never have children" she declared. "What is her father thinking, passing by, ignoring what his son is doing to her?"


Old Len just strode past, ignoring all the screaming, the brutalising of his eldest daughter, by his eldest son.

The younger siblings came barrelling out, onto the paddock. Laughing, jeering, as Irene regained her footing. Limped, slowly over to the cowsheds. Wounded. Hurt.
Her brother, brutally triumphant. What had he achieved?

Christy observed all this, and wondered where the brutal, primeval, urges came from. To be displayed unexpectedly in males. Why did they suddenly become some alien being? What call did they respond to, to be so base? So brutal,? so inhumane? So ...so ...animal?

......

Christy thought again of Ross.
Remembered the wonderful nights they had had together.
Her mother had lent him her car, and they had travelled to a seaside destination, to join the fun of a carnival.
They had walked the streets, arm in arm, enjoying the lovely salty, warm night air.
How magical it all felt, the lovely salty feeling, the warmth eveloping them, as they strolled the sandy streets. The Pohutukawa trees lining the small alley ways. The cottages, & small blocks of flats, lighted sofly, all, somehow conveying the joy & peace of the evening.

Then, the hideous shock, of the man, kicking a woman, who was lying in the gutter crying.

Christy had leapt upon the kicker, berating him furiously, smacking him away, with slaps & mild punches.
"How dare you"!! "What the hell are you doing? Stop it, Stop it now!!"
Cradling the woman in the gutter, soothing her.

Ross, springing to her side, amazed at her bravery. A little shocked at how fierce she was, to the attacker.

He quickly backed her up, pushed the attacker away.

The 'victim' who had lain in the gutter, invited them back to her place. The 'attacker' turned out to be her husband. She was sure he was having an affair. He denied all knowledge of her accusations.

Christy and Ross never did decipher who was telling the truth. They consoled each other, that at least they had stopped domestic abuse.

They had resisted invites to partake of alcoholic drinks to celebrate the night. They took their leave, and Ross drove them safely home. A pleasant and safe evening for them both.

Another evening, another event. Christy & Ross, invited to a party.

A lot of Christy's aquaintances, a lot of 'strangers' to Ross.

"He drinks too much." A suprise to Christy, who had never seen Ross drinking alcohol, in any great amount.

He became odd. He decided he was 'jealous' of Christy's movements.

Who was admiring her? Who was making a move on her?

Ross began to be paranoid, seeing threats to his 'claim' at every turn.

She made the mistake of laughing, when he suggested such things. She laughed, told him he was "silly."
She did not see the anger, the 'almost mad' light in his eyes when he mentioned it.

Of course, she would later regret missing those warning signs. Those small signals that all was not well. That he did not register things the same way that she did. Indeed the way most other people registered things, as 'normal'.

When he struck with mean vengeance, perhaps. wanting to kill her, for his percieved transgression, Christy was unaware.

She had no idea what or why, he was attacking her. She did note, that had his father not come to her rescue, she would very likely have died.

She still shuddered at the memory. She still mourned the breakdown of the person she had seen as sensitive, loving, & wonderful.

She also knew, she would never trust him again.

Why did she feel he had been close? Why did she see his smile in the mocking curl of the smoke from the neighbour's chimneys?.

Christy's Doubt. Chapter 4.

"Morning Dew"

The winding tendril curls,
It seeks a destination.

In these magic whirls,
I see bright fascination.

A dewdrop suspended,
A treasure~ intended?

For watchful eyes to see,
A diamond blinks, in gold, to me,

It winks so strong, in rising sun,
Bright, fragile morning, just begun.

A treasure left, to flare so bright,
Or pass unseen, in morning's light.

*******************


"The Doubt, Expressed."


A little stumble at your station.
You know your situation.

You staggered at the curve,
You knew you had to swerve!

You could not swear alliance,
When you felt so much defiance.

They tried to grasp your mind,
They used the fear to bind.

In the end your sanity prevailed,
Your beliefs survive, unassailed.



The Lisping Leader, his whispers reviled,
You tried to tell them, but they just smiled,

And they said to "Have Faith"
But you knew the truth, his hands were defiled.

He clasped And he grasped,
Anatomy, to which he was not entitled.
The personal invasions, the girls that would squirm,
Who could they tell?
Of the Libertine worm?

Who would believe that the Pillar of Church
Would stoop to defile, commit acts to besmirch?
The Church.


So Churches left all the beliefs of the child.
Shed, "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild"

Never such crap, would again cloud her thoughts.
She instinctively knew, no justice from Courts.

**************************

Chapter 4, is really for Christy.

She buried her head into her pillow, sobbing quietly. She had no wish to disturb anyone else, and she felt her distress and sadness, were hers alone.
Her long auburn hair hung about her face, the wild curly tangles, causing her distress, because it was wet, and it was now, somehow, a reminder of Ross. He loved her hair, & she was determined to get it cut.

She could see his fine features. His neat short nose, his beautiful eyes, so grey, so appealing. He always felt he was too short, he told her. She felt he was just right, taller than she was, and so handsome, and fit. He had nothing to feel inferior about. He had told her he felt it unfair his father, old Angus, was taller and broader than he.

She had assured him that was nonsense, that he was perfect the way he was. She had loved his gentle sensitivity. The way he could sense a mood, and tune into it's wavelength.

She could picture his fine fingers, his delicate hands, as if they were meant to be artist's hands. To sculpt, create, somehow make beautiful paintings or works of art in other media.

She knew about certain parts of his life, but he shut out others. He became very secretive about his mother's death. He flat-out refused to talk about it. She thought that may be because he had no actual knowledge of her death, or the circumstances.

She really did not know. No one was prepared to tell her. They all feigned ignorance, & perhaps it was not feigned. Maybe they had no real knowledge.

She knew his father was a very private man. She could still see his shocked, though still handsome, face, appearing out of the mist, as she lost consciousness.
She could vaguely recall his shocked shouts, telling his son to
"Get the Hell off her!"
"What the hell are you doing? Trying to kill her?"

She could still feel that strangulation, that losing of consciousness.

Thank goodness she had had the sense to try to shout, as he attacked her. It had probably saved her life, as Angus had roused from his drunken stupor to come to her aid.

She could remember how he had shouted, to Ross first, then to her. Telling her to
"Get home" "What the hell are you here for?"

She could still feel the shame burn on her cheeks. Was it her fault??

She shuddered in revulsion, and the tears continued to fall, into the Auburn mass, which she decided had to go.

Footy Run. Chapter 3.

The evening was darkening as he hastily laced his trainers, & zipped his jacket. He had decided to take a run, down to the football oval to watch the training.

He had even kidded himself that he might join in.

After his hot day spent heaving bales of hay about for old man Purdy, he was feeling quite weary, & more than a little muscle sore. Old Purdy had made damn sure he got his money's worth out him. The cunning old sod had offered a price before the day's labours began, and he kept adding one more task, one more "little job".

The fact that he only had daughters had never slowed Purdy down, in the dishing out of jobs. He made them work for their keep. As he saw it, they were free labour, and rightly so. One by one, they had grown and gone, as soon as they could. One girl went nursing, down South, one got pregnant and married, making sure she moved away with her new husband. The baby of the family was not waiting around to be worked to a standstill, and she had run off to who knew where.

For months, the talk of the town had been that her father had killed her, and fed her to his pigs, but her mother claimed she got letters from her, so apparently she was not dead at all. Needless to say, the old biddies in the town were rather disappointed there was no juicy scandal.

However there was always other gossip to be found, not least being his return from his 'corrective' holiday, at one of Her Majesty's Establishments.

He supposed his father must have taken his share of the gossiping stares and whispers, and drowned his sorrows each night in his sherry filled haze. In a way, he felt he couldn't blame his father. He was not really sure whether his father was a drunk, or an alcoholic. Either way, the effects were the same, and he felt his father had been missing quite a lot throughout his childhood.

At least he had offered him a home again, once he had got released. It was the considered opinion of the 'Biddies' that poor Angus deserved better than his son, Ross, who had temporarily, gone a little 'wild'.

When Ross had come home from Purdy's, he was surprised to find his father had cooked him a passable meal. There were mashed potatoes, some hogget chops, which had of course come from the inevitable frying pan, along with some soggy cabbage, and a bit of carrot. No gravy, but the tomato sauce bottle was on the table.

Angus had grunted, when he thanked him, and had retired to his room, his radio blattering away, behind his closed door.

Ross had eaten, washed his dishes, then run a bath, & had a good soak to loosen his shoulders.

As he was closing the door, Angus stuck his head out, and shouted, gruffly,
"Go careful, son!"

Ross jogged down the street, in the rapidly chilling night air. As he approached the corner he saw a small bundle of fury come hurtling down the lawn. It looked like a tortured clump of brindle rags, in the streetlight, as it snarled and barked furiously at him.

"Oh Sparky, darling, come here! You know Ross, don't growl at him, he is a friend." Titter titter.

The neighbour daughter, who owned this ragged ball of slathering rage, came daintily out on the lawn, dressed in her nighty, pretending to be shocked at Dear Little Sparky's rage.

Ross ignored them both, and continued jogging on.
Who was she kidding? The dog behaved exactly the same, night or day, no matter who passed by. Ross had contemplated giving Sparky flying lessons, but had decided the aggravation would not be worth any pleasure he might get.

He jogged on down past the houses, then the 'Church of the Lisping Godbotherers', or whatever they called themselves, then past the last straggle of shops, to the footy oval, which was behind the imaginary 'end of town'.

Past the empty basketball courts, where the sweating, heaving girls, with their huge legs, and Gym frocks, with black stockings, manfully played their Saturday Games, with a fury and a passion only a player could understand.

Christy never played Basketball. Did not have any understanding of the game.

He stood outside the bright Oval lights, watching the would-be players running round the oval, passing the ball. The coach was yelling at them.

"Move it MOVE IT!!"

He watched them puffing and panting, most of them a little out of condition, from Summer's pub visits, and parties.

He watched Bennie 'Blue Balls', soon to be married to Donna Keyson, daughter of the local cop. Her father watched her like a hawk, & Bennie had no chance of getting into mischief, or anything else he should not be touching, while Old Keyson watched over Donna.

Hence the those stone flinging, tension filled, drives home, like a crazed man, once Bennie said 'Goodnight' to Donna.


Ross found his feet turning up another street, and he was running quite quickly now, a good rhythm developing, and his feet pounding out her name.

"Christy" "Christy" "Christy"

He knew he should not be coming back here. He knew it was wrong.
He just could not seem to stop himself.

As he neared the gate, he could see, the lights in the diningroom were out. Her mother's car was on the lawn. Her mother must have the night off.

He slunk up past the car, sneaking around past the tank stand. He could see the light was on in Christy's bedroom.

He was startled by a sudden burst of light, from Old Man Dan's next door, as the old man opened his back door- which was his only door, in his humble dwelling, a bach he had built himself.

Old Man Dan, had come out with his teapot, to empty the tealeaves around his lemon tree. For some reason, he believed it would give the tree a better crop of lemons. Maybe he was right.
He went back inside, & closed his door, the light suddenly gone.

Ross edged closer to Christy's bedroom windows, trying to get a glimpse of her, but her curtains were carefully closed. Her mother's bedroom light was on, but her curtains too, were closed.

He stood trembling with ... emotions, swirling, of what, he was not sure, ... was it anger... sorrow... despair?

He knew he had done the wrong thing.

She had given him the benefit of the doubt, the first time.

She had warned him, there would be no third time, should a second occur.

What the hell was wrong with him? What had he been thinking?

Cursing softly, he stole out of the yard. He began his lonely walk home, in the cold, moonlit night.