I rang Amily’s mobile and begged her to convince her mum to come, or to come alone if her mum refused. Amily sounded torn. Poor girl was between a rock and a hard place, and her mum and I had put her there.
Week by week the audience grew. The neighbours brought along their friends, who brought along their friends and their dogs. One night I saw Marg talking to a Labrador, looking for all the world like she was having an in-depth conversation with the animal.
Four months into the shows a skinny, dark-skinned boy turned up looking lost and dirty. He squatted in a corner and didn’t speak to a soul. At the end of the night he snuck away and I was mad at myself for not saying hello. I hoped he would turn up the next week, but he didn’t.
One night as the leaves on the plane trees were starting to fall, and Amily and Jacqui still hadn’t come, the dark-skinned boy came back. He sat in the same corner, squashed up against the egg cartons, fiddled with the hem on his ragged shirt and didn’t speak to a soul. But I saw him tapping his foot.
After the gig I walked straight up to him, not wanting to risk him running out on me again.
‘I’m Maurice,’ I said, holding out my hand.
‘Faraj,’ he said, and shook my hand in a way that made me wonder when he last ate.
‘Do you live on the street?’
‘Yes,’ the boy said.
‘Which number?’
‘Number?’
‘Which house do you live at?’
‘Oh, no. Not in a house. On the street.’
The child looked like he would break in two under a soft breeze.
‘Do you play?’ I asked, pointing towards the makeshift stage.
‘No,’ he said wistfully.
‘I can teach you, if you like.’
He didn’t answer.
‘Come back tomorrow morning. We can have some breakfast and I’ll teach you some beats. D’you like the drums?’
Someone slapped me on the back to say goodbye and I turned away from Faraj for a moment, and just like that he slipped away.
The crowd thinned out slowly after that. It was a crisp autumn night before the real chill of winter and people were reluctant to leave the sweetness of the evening behind. The shed and driveway were strewn with paper coffee cups and crushed chips, the green IKEA shag pile carpet that Dalton stood on while he sang was sodden with beer. The shed was a mess, but it was my mess and I loved it. The only thing that was needed to make it feel like the pub in the old days was some lipstick-stained, Hep-A-contaminated beer glasses and smoky lighting. Maybe I should invest in some better lights, I thought, as I waved goodbye to the last of the stragglers.
I was about to pull down the stiff shed door when a figure walked towards me from the street. Even though she was only a silhouette, I could tell from her walk it was Amily.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know you were here! It’s great to see you.’ I reached out my arms and she hugged me awkwardly.
‘Well, there were about five million people here tonight. I’m not surprised you didn’t see me.’
‘It was a big night.’
Amily inspected the shed.
‘I like what you’ve done to the place,’ she said with a twist in her voice.
I couldn’t help myself.
‘I liked it better with you and your mum here.’
Amily didn’t answer. I should have kept my stupid mouth shut, not dragged her into my messed up head again. She walked over to my kit and sat down. A rush of memories hit me: Amily aged two, bashing my kit for the first time, the cymbals her favourite noise; Amily aged six on her own miniature kit, her face serious with effort, tongue curled out of the corner of her mouth, trying to remember the rhythm I was teaching her; Amily aged twelve, headphones on. By then she’d given up on making music and only listened to it.
Now, she picked up the sticks and tentatively tapped the skin on the snare. The child had no rhythm, but she hardly needed to inherit my only skill.
I resisted the urge to correct her hold on the stick and tap my foot like an instructive metronome. I just waited for her, watched her tinker.
‘How’s your mum?’ I asked.
‘Happy,’ she said.
The word hit me like a road train. Happy.
‘So am I,’ I said, and it was true.
‘I can tell,’ she said.
‘And you, darlin’? How’re you?’
Amily shrugged. A teenager’s response. ‘I’m okay.’ She stood up, leaving the sticks on the snare and wandered around the room, touching things here and there, inspecting my new life with the lazy nonchalance teenagers were supposed to exude. I sat down in her place and started tapping out a soft beat, giving the gaping silence between us a backdrop.
‘Can I make you a cuppa?’ I eventually asked her. What I really wanted to say was, ‘Darlin’ I miss you like hell, come home.’ But I didn’t.
She nodded and we walked into the house.
‘You haven’t made the house into a pub or anything, have you?’ she joked, the first real Amily smile I’d seen in far too long.
The next day I woke up first and put on the kettle. I left Amily to sleep in her old room, unchanged since she and her mother left.
As the kettle boiled I heard a soft tap on the front door.
Faraj.
I’d forgotten my promise to make the boy breakfast and teach him to play.
‘Faraj, come in! Come in!’
I ushered him into the kitchen and motioned for him to sit.
‘Cornflakes okay?’ I asked. There wasn’t any other option. Fortunately he nodded.
I put a bowl in front of him and he ate slowly. I could tell he was starving.
I filled his bowl up for the second time, and Amily emerged from her room, hair a mess and still in last night’s clothes.
‘Morning, love,’ I said. ‘This is Faraj. He lives on the street.’
‘Hi, Faraj,’ she said sleepily.
Amily filled up a bowl of cereal.
‘Faraj, you want to learn some beats?’
The boy nodded and stood up with the barest hint of a smile.
I looked at these two children in my kitchen and I thought; this old fella still has a few good years in him yet.
‘Come out to the shed when you’re done, Ams?’
I ruffled her birds nest hair and she nodded as I led Faraj to the drum kit.
‘You got rhythm, Faraj?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know, Maurice.’
‘Anyone in your family play?’
He didn’t answer so I looked at him. His brown eyes were glassy.
‘Only soccer.’
‘Ah well, there’s hope for you yet, son.’
THANK YOU
It takes a village to write a book. I may have been the one at the keyboard, but there were many others who were with me every step of the way, and those who were there at various – critical – points.
Thank you to the publications who accepted some of these stories. I don’t have words for how important it was to me to have those first few stories accepted. Having a few ‘okay, I can do this’ moments along the way gave me the courage and conviction to continue.
Ryan O’Neill generously ceded to my near-begging to be my mentor. I knew you were the man for the job! Your gentle but astute feedback and insights elevated my work. Thank you for letting me dance in your shadow.
Ryan O’Neill also wrote an endorsement that made my heart leap and flutter, as did the delightful Michelle Wright (I’ll always wish we could have used your first response, Michelle!) and the super-supportive and kind Professor Donna Lee Brien. Thank you all for taking the time to read my work and put together your lovely words about it. It’s an honour to have your names on the cover of my book.
Dr Rosslyn Prosser held my hand through many dark days as I wrote the thesis that bore the fruit that is this book. Ros, you always knew just the right thing to say. Thank you for lifting me and listening to me.
Thank you to the University of Adelaide and the Department of English and Creative Writing. If my life was a book, things would start getting interesting the day my acceptance into the PhD program came in the post. That was the turning point and the beginning of many wonderful adventures and friendships.
Joanne Knott is a talented botanical artist. Jo, your drawing of a plane tree leaf was precisely what I had hoped to have on the cover of my book. Thank you for your beautiful work.
Kim Lock is a joy and a pleasure to work with. Kim, your cover design perfectly enhanced the gorgeous image of Jo’s leaf. Thank you. I hope to work with you on many more covers!
Zena Shapter went beyond the call to scramble together a gorgeous layout under challenging conditions. I’m indebted to you, Zena. I love what you did to make my words look like a real book.
Thank you to my writer’s group colleagues: Kristin Martin, Tom di Santo, Elaine Cain, Alys Jackson, Louise Friebe, Michele Fairbairn and Nicola McGunnigle. Your support has been invaluable and your comments on the many drafts this book has been through have made it immeasurably better. You rock, and you are my rock(s). Thanks for being my people.
Anna Solding, Publishing Director at MidnightSun Publishing, is a woman of unmatched bravery, determination, energy and imagination. Thank you for taking on this strange little project and facilitating a dream that I have had since I was seven years old. You are a treasure and a dear friend.
This book took seven years to write. That’s seven years of Mark, Ryan and Katy giving up their time with me so that I could follow this path and attempt to hold onto my sanity. And seven years of babysitting by my unfailingly supportive and always available parents, Ross and Hannelore Washington. Thank you all for giving me time and space, and for understanding what it means for me to be able to write.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The following stories have been previously published, some in slightly different versions:
‘North Atlantic Farewell’ was published in Transnational Literature Volume 6, Issue 2, May 2014.
‘Lia and Amos’ was published in Breaking Beauty ed Lynette Washington, MidnightSun Publishing, 2014.
‘Gaps Between Boxes’ was published in Aspire Magazine April/May 2014.
‘How to Disappear Incompletely’ was published in SWAMP Writing Issue 14 March 2014.
‘Housing Needs Assessment’ was published in Tincture Journal Issue 4 November 2013.
‘The Swarm’ was published in Stoned Crows and Other Australian Icons eds Julie Chevalier and Linda Godfrey,
Spineless Wonders, 2012.
‘Hermit Crabs’ was published in SWAMP Writing Issue 12 March 2013.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lynette Washington
Lynette Washington is a short story writer, editor and teacher of creative and professional writing. She holds a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Adelaide. Her stories have been published widely and in 2014 she edited the story collection, Breaking Beauty. In 2017 she co-edited the story collection, Crush. Plane Tree Drive is her debut. When she is not writing, she teaches police cadets the importance of sentence structure and grammar.
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Bursting with affection, wit, loss, sex and a whole lot of love,
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‘A delicious and captivating look at love in all its wonderful
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‘There is something vicious at the heart of these stories,
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Distinguished by its measured yet speculative style,
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‘The best of the writers in this collection take us outside
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the Swedish settings vividly realized.’
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Nominated for six awards,
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We are a small, independent publisher based in
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MidnightSun has gone from strength to strength.
We create books that are beautifully produced,
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