by R. L. Holmes
In a state of shock, I have to see who this man is. This man who dares go near a grieving, sulking, scowling mess of a female, and to my sickening surprise, it’s Geoff. Geoff, with the neck of a turkey and a head of a St Bernard. Geoff who can read my thoughts and send me evil stares. Geoff, who should be grieving over his best friend, Daniel.
This is so peculiar to me. It was in early spring when Daniel was found, burnt to a crisp, on the Richardson’s farm. Now in midsummer as the breeze becomes warmer and nights shorter, these two people, Daniels closest of allies, are now lovers. This sickens me to my core. Not because they don’t suit each other, because I’m sure they do. In fact they are almost like glaring, grimacing twins. But because, they don’t seem to have any respect for the fact that he has been dead and buried, for only five months. Five months! That is all. No one has been caught yet, and these two feel the need to snuggle up to each other over Daniel’s dead body.
I race home hugging tightly the cans of sweet milk. I drop them only a couple of times, as Rachel had no interest in offering me a bag. I guess her brain turned to mush when her new beau, entered the scene. Mind you, her brain is probably made of mush in the first place, hence why she only speaks in one syllable words.
As I arrive home I tell Gran all about the new couple and like me, she is very surprised. ‘I wonder how that happened.’ She stirs a large pot filled with stewing Black Doris plums, smelling divine. ‘She’s been out of town for ages.’
My thoughts on the strange relationship drift out the window, when I take a whiff of the glorious, pot of plums. That smell, that sweet succulent smell. No perfume company in the world could replicate this most delectable, comforting yet enthralling mouth watering scent.
‘It’s a jam,’ Gran says, noticing my nose getting a little too close to the hot pot. ‘I’m making this one without the feijoa’s, since they’re out of season.’
I leave the alluring, sweet aroma within the kitchen and head to the back of the yard where our two old feijoa trees live. Seth is beneath one of them, muttering something about the winds changing direction. The trees are in good shape, completely laden in red bottle brush flowers that will be ready to fall from the tree in about a month.
I do question why I keep seeing Seth. He arrived on my twelfth birthday, that awful, horrible birthday that I want to forget, forever. Usually my imaginary friends only stay a short time or arrive when I need them, like when I’m sick then disappear again. But Seth has been consistently living in our backyard, for months. I have asked him how long he’s going to stay for. But he just brushes me away, like I’m a nuisance.
He is though, fantastic with the fruiting plants. He seems to have a magical way of getting the best out of a plant, which in affect makes the plants more productive. We had seen the decrepit state, the old apricot tree was in when the winds, killed half of it. But somehow he keeps chipping away at it, feeding, fussing and chatting to it. The feijoa and Black Doris trees are a never ending source of pleasure, always strong and healthy, and the lemon and grapefruit trees, look as if they have a glowing light around them.
Even though, I feel that Seth is here for me, because I’m the only one who can see him, he makes it utterly clear to me that he is here for the garden. But through his stubborn determination and forthrightness he helps us to help ourselves. And that may be why he is really here.
¥
Mid January 1999: Stranger
¥
I took the day off work and went to visit my old friend Geoff. He was surprised to see me, not happy of course as we were unspoken enemies for a while there. I had not seen much of him since I killed his best friend and low and behold I find out the girl Maria, was his cousin. What a sordid mess of a situation we have here.
I couldn’t bear to have those creatures pro-create, that would be simply awful. The blood-line that runs through that girl is like poison to an otherwise peaceful, dignified society. Daniel told me she was pregnant. Idiot. But he loved her and was willing to support her through “thick and thin,” he said.
Geoff was against it, like I. He despised that side of the family, filled with crooks and seediness. His mother is sister to Sasha. She is a fairly decent woman, although a little dim and perhaps easily persuaded by men. Even she saw something debase with this family and preferred Geoff to have nothing to do with them. But Geoff did like Maria. In fact he found her wild, free ways rather alluring. And it was through him that Daniel and Maria met.
I approached Geoff one day and began to manipulate him into killing Daniel and Maria. Step one of my plan - which went without a hitch. Of course I had to be gentle and careful with how I went about doing this, but eventually over a few months, using bribery, I won him over.
He was scared of me of course. I had information on him. A big, ugly, dark secret, Daniel entrusted on me. So I used this to my advantage. If this secret were to get out, his life wouldn’t be worth living.
The silly fool got rather nervous after the fire and kept pestering me about it. I felt he was going to crack and especially after the drug bust at Mary’s, he got even more nervous, verging on irrational.
He said Saracen is a creepy little girl who always stares at him as if she can see his secrets. Ah yes! She is one in the same as me, two peas in a pod. I feel proud of her, her ability to intimidate and scrutinise, at such a young age. Ah yes, she will make such a great apprentice. I long to hand my talents down to someone brilliant, as they were handed down to me.
Geoff feels like people know what he did. He feels their eyes upon him watching his every move. He did not light the fire or even pour the ethanol over the car. That was not his job. All I asked him to do was to watch them that day, that is all. And he did - his jealousy swelling and fermenting as he stared at the handsome young couple frolicking in the water, without a care in the world.
I noticed his crush on his cousin and I played on that. This was not his terrible secret of course. I will take that to my grave. But I knew seeing them would fuel his fire and then fuel mine. He was the only person on earth, who knew I had committed this crime. And so when his anxiety and paranoia increased - I inserted into his mind the only solution to the problem. And like a good, stupid lad he prepared himself for the task at hand, as I suggested.
Another fool down. One more to go.
¥
Mid January 1999: Saracen
¥
Potts is strutting up our drive like a water balloon about to explode. Her fists are tight and she’s almost out of breath. Sugar Ray’s, Every Morning is playing on the stereo as she hastily gathers us all together in the lounge and makes us swear on Granddad’s grave that we do not divulge, what she was about to tell us.
We all agree.
She had just been talking on the phone with her workmate and was updated with top secret information about the case. We sat on the edge of our seats, leaning in to her with a hunger to be completely shocked by the information she was about to share.
Smelling like the stinky chicken feed factory, Potts takes a deep breath and says, ‘That girl that got burnt........’
We all nod, our hearts racing, desperate for the next piece of the puzzle.
‘Well, get this.’ she looks around the room, making sure there is no one there with ears pressed up against the walls. ‘Guess who she is related to?’
My mind goes blank. Usually when someone asks a question starting with the word guess, 101 possibilities enter my head, whether realistic or not. But this time, my mind is like an empty capsule.
‘Don’t tell me she’s related to Daniel,’ Gran crows, as the colour runs from her face.
‘Nope. Guess again.’
Gran sighs and stands up. Her arm is bothering her and she isn’t in the mood to play games. ‘Come on Potts, we haven’t got all day,’ she says raising her voice.
‘Alright.’ Potts says calming Gran down and beckoning her back to her seat. ‘She’s related to that old geezer that got arrested by Sara’s school.’ She nods towards
me and takes a deep breath.
‘What?’ my mother squeals. ‘In what way related?’
Potts takes another deep breath, the excitement overwhelming her. ‘She is his daughter.’
‘Oh no.’ My mother leans back in a heap in her chair. She’s looking a little pale and quite exhausted from being enlightened. ‘Did he do horrible things with her?’
‘Apparently he did it to everyone in the family, the fucken’ old creep!’
‘Oh that poor girl,’ mum sighs.
‘So what has she got to do with Daniel?’ Gran asks, still holding a fondness for him, like we all do.
‘That’s where they’re a bit stuck,’ Potts draws out a cigarette and places it between her lips.
‘Don’t light that in here,’ Gran snaps. Potts smiles and tries to charm Gran by winking at her. Gran shoots her a dagger.
‘They have been interviewing the family members, but there is only one that knows Daniel,’ Potts continues, coughing up spit then requesting a place to offload it.
Gran points to the bathroom. Potts gets up in her baggy jeans and beige oversized tee shirt and as she walks towards the bathroom she says, ‘That queer looking Geoff. Do you know him?’
‘Yeah,’ I answer, a little afraid of hearing anymore.
‘He’s her cousin. Maria is her name. Geoff is Maria’s cousin on their mother’s side. That molesting, old prick is Maria’s father.’
Gran’s eyes land on me. We had only a moment ago discussed Geoff and his new love, Daniel’s ex-girlfriend. This all seems rather seedy and sordid. It makes very little sense, to me. Daniel could have any girl he wanted and he chose the scowling, sooty-eyed Rachel and horrid Geoff’s cousin. What was he thinking? Even for my young mind I find it all rather peculiar and begin to feel somewhat sickened by the whole situation.
¥
As Potts leaves, we stay sitting and staring at each other unable to find the words to express the overwhelming feelings we have. There is so much that circles my mind and I can tell my mother is completely flummoxed by this new lot of information. She keeps looking at me with tears in her eyes, as if I have been the one under this old man’s roof while he performed disgusting acts on his own flesh and blood.
She did not know Daniel Parker and to be honest she wasn’t interested in finding out about him. Her objective was to keep me safe. But in her mind she failed that task by not being around and by not being my mother. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell her, that I made the story up about the old man who lived by my school, she cannot grasp that concept, and to be honest I don’t really blame her.
The pot of stewing plums spits and spews over the side into the elements, creating a burning smell. Gran gets up and with one hand tries to rescue the batch. Quickly noticing Gran’s difficulty, mum races over to help her. I’m grateful the plums decide to do this as I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable under the weight of my mother’s stare.
After we clean up the deep red fluid all over the stove top, Gran decides to cook up the apples that are sitting in a bucket by the backdoor. They are small, bitter fruits, not really good for eating as they are, but perfect for stewing. Gran suggests that we make fritters out of them and serve them up hot at the farmer’s market. She grabs an apple sitting on the top of the pile and tells mum to thinly slice it. She then tries without success, to pull the deep fryer out of the bottom cupboard. Again mum comes to the rescue and pulls the dusty thing out and lands it heavily on the bench.
I’m surprised to see we have a deep fryer. Gran is always preaching about the importance of healthy, fresh food and here she is about to seduce the public into the art of clogging ones arteries.
She patiently directs mum through the entire cooking process. They find a recipe for sweet fritters, that contain cinnamon spice and mum proceeds to follow the recipe, all the while the vegetable oil heats up in the artery clogger. Due to the apples being so tart, Gran feels it’ll be a good idea to add an extra bit of sugar to the batter.
When the oil’s hot enough, mum throws the runny, batter-covered, apple slices into the fryer. Immediately it spits and sizzles releasing a delicious, sweet donut smell into the air. Even without tasting these little crispy morsels, I know I will love them. I know every core of my being will want more. And after the fritter is cooked and left to rest, I try one. What I always forget though is my sensitive stomach. In my mind I can eat any quantity of any type of alluring food. But my stomach, usually wants plain healthy food that at times isn’t really much fun.
It’s an instant reaction. I belch, my stomach groans and I hastily run to the toilet.
‘Oh, was it that bad?’ mum calls out to me as I land heavily on the plastic toilet seat.
‘No, it was really nice.’ I can hear the crunching and humming of my guardians devouring the last of the fritters, as I sit in a sulk, passing wind and clutching my stomach.
¥
The next task to be done before the coming Saturday is to make some body butter. The plums and apples are quickly moved out the way and replaced with brown glass bottles containing rosehip, almond, and avocado oils and a tub filled with caramel coloured shea butter.
Once I finished my painful duty on the toilet, I go back out to watch the interesting process of a moisturiser being born. With Gran directing mum, she tells her to pour the almond oil into a container on the scales, stop once it reaches 300grams then pour 100grams each of avocado and rosehip oils. When this is complete she pours the oils into a double burner on the stove. Then she weighs out the shea butter to be exactly 500grams and adds that to the large pot. Then simply, melt down at a moderate heat and once completely wet, pour into the amber glass pots that Gran previously sterilised in the oven. Then Gran drops some citrus essential oils into each container, as apparently this is good for eating away at cellulite and let cool.
Once cool, we carefully place the sticky labels on with our business name, Three Generations. Gran named this treat for the thighs, Citrus Whip.
¥
When Saturday arrives, mum wakes me up at some ludicrous hour to prepare for the stall at the farmer’s market. We have a lot to offer the folks in Fenton, anything from preserves to jams, fruit wines to skincare, all handmade by us, Three Generations. We have a large stall, requiring two long folded tables with a concertina wall behind with posters and ideas for recipes using our chutneys and preserves.
Mum drags out the deep fryer and connects it to an electrical line next to a caravan, so we can heat it up. Gran believes the fritters will be a big draw card, simply because the wonderful, warm, sweet, fatty smell will lure them here like children to The Piped Piper.
By 6am on this bright, clear morning, the market is in full swing. On one side of us we have apple and peach growers; on the other side we have apple and nectarine growers. Behind us is various stalls run by retired ladies who display knitted baby’s cardigans, booties, crab apple jelly and several flavoured jams. We instead, make our stall look modern and interesting and people flock to buy our wine and skincare and just about everything.
After a couple of hours of hectic serving and our ice cream container growing quickly with money, the crowd thins out a little. Gran slinks off to use the bathroom. When she returns a little while later, she seems uptight as if something is bothering her. I can’t dwell on it for too long though as I’m busting to go myself. Telling mum and Gran where I’m going I race off across the yard to the toilet building, bypassing a couple of my classmates, who hate me.
When I return the crowd has grown again and I notice Gran getting a little frustrated with the discomfort in her arm. Mum is appointed on the fryer, while Gran and I serve. I get back behind our stall, feeling much lighter and happier.
A familiar face catches my eye through the crowd. It’s Geoff, I can tell. That strange, large square head on that thin turkey neck, I’d know it anywhere. He seems annoyed as he stands leaning up against a hotdog caravan, staring with revengeful eyes in our direction. I can’t understand this. What did
we do wrong? Why is he looking at us with so much hate and spite? I nudge Gran and quietly point him out to her. She nods cautiously and brushes me aside as if it is nothing to worry about.
But still, he continues to stare with those small, loveless eyes. After what seems like a million hours, he lifts his glare. Something or someone catches his attention to the right of our stall. I stretch my neck trying to see who or what it is. But the crowd is so thick and I fail to see anything of interest.
When I look back in the direction of Geoff, his eyes are piercing themselves through me. He lifts his hand and in the shape of a pistol aims it at his head. Then without even a blink or a flinch, he pretends to shot himself in the head, with only a wry smile to finish off his miming act of violence.
A lady stands in front of me and asks for a small taste of the boysenberry and ginger jam, hoping that it won’t be too gingery for her grandkids. A child of about seven requests a taste of Russian fudge and then the chocolate fudge. She buys one packet of each.
They move away happy with their purchases and to my horror Geoff is still standing in the same place with eyes burning into us, but this time he holds a real gun.
I feel Gran’s body stiffen. I look up at her face. She is watching him too. With the same amount of hate in his eyes as before, he raises the gun to his head, and fires. The shudder of the bang radiates into my bones. A pulsating pain like a thousand pins strikes my temples and blurs my sight. People scream and flee. Parents hold their children and loved ones closely. Stall tables are tipped and caravans rock as people desperately run for cover.
