narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Two

by narrator AUSTRALIA

  ~~~

  A large group gathered around the graveside. ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ the minister intoned. Bob and Kate stood on either side of Christine. Family and friends were gathered behind them. Her mother lasted a little over the six months the doctors had predicted, fighting to spend precious time with her family. Sobs choked Christine as she placed white rosebuds on her mother’s coffin and it was lowered into the ground.

  Back at the house, people gathered for the wake. Her mother’s many friends all wanted to say farewell and to offer Christine their support. She handed around trays of food and drinks for what seemed like hours. People kept asking where Justin was. ‘He’s overseas,’ she muttered in a vague way. The old aunts tutted. All the sympathetic hugs and condolences overwhelmed her.

  Suddenly she needed to escape, to seek the peace of her garden. Down behind the shed, there was a large open area. Here she had planted trees and shrubs. In the spring warmth she found her quiet place. She was hidden from the house. Wearily she sank onto a bench. The grief of losing her mother was bad enough.

  Making her last wish come true seemed impossible. Justin had not contacted her for a long time; she had no idea where to even begin searching.

  A scratching sound made her look up. Staring at her from the safety of a low tree branch was a peacock. The bird was preening his blue-green plumage, his long train of eye feathers drooping behind. Suddenly it made a most unusual noise as it landed on the ground at her feet.

  ‘Where on earth did you come from?’ she asked the bird. ‘Not many peacocks around here.’

  He eyed her calmly, pecking in the dirt. Christine watched him for a while until she felt ready to face the crowd again. The bird was still there when she returned to the house.

  The peacock stayed. Every day Christine went down to the garden. She began to take seed with her. At first the peacock ignored her, but gradually it recognised her and would come out and greet her. Bob and Kate thought she was mad.

  ‘It must belong to someone,’ they said. ‘It’ll go home if you quit feeding it.’ Somehow Christine couldn’t do that. It felt right to care for this bird. Her family shrugged and gave up mentioning it. Like they had given up talking about Justin. Christine however did not forget her son. She knew she had to find him.

  The last contact had been a postcard from the Taj Mahal in India. Why he’d sent this after having been missing for 18 months she wasn’t sure, but it was the only clue she had. She rang the Australian embassy. The staff was sympathetic and promised to try to locate him, but they held little hope of success. She rang his old friends. None had heard from him recently. Christine posted ads in newspapers and on the internet.

  ‘If he wanted to see us, he’d have come home,’ Bob said. ‘Not much interested if you ask me.’

  ‘I have to try,’ she told him. ‘For Mum’s sake and ours.’

  Christine searched for months. The embassy didn’t manage to track him down in India. However, they could tell her he’d been in England six months previously. She tried advertising in English newspapers. Again she called his friends, his old school chums, his workmates.

  When the task of finding her son seemed most daunting Christine would head to the garden and visit the peacock. His very presence seemed to give her a renewed hope. His antics amused her. He seemed to enjoy rolling in a shallow hole scratched in the dirt, or the sun would tempt him to stretch out and lie down. A tree provided his favourite spot to roost. That blue-green plumage was a bright beacon in her day.

  Summer and autumn came and went and winter arrived with bitter winds and chilly days. Christine had almost lost any hope of finding her son, when out of the blue she received a reply on her net posting. Justin was in Central America, working as a volunteer. This was a chance. Bob was doubtful that the information was true, but Christine sat down and wrote a long letter to her son, telling him to come home.

  Spring had only just begun when the peacock’s behaviour changed. He started to preen his plumage and to strut and fan out his eye feathers in a train. His shimmery dance of courtship was reserved just for her. As she appeared each day, he’d puff out his blue-green chest.

  ‘I’m not a peahen,’ she told him, laughing. ‘Perhaps you should go and find yourself a mate.’ But the peacock ignored her and stayed.

  She hadn’t heard anything of Justin. Maybe her letter had gone astray; she wasn’t sure how the postal system was in Central America. He could have moved on.

  ‘I should just give up,’ she said to the bird, ‘but somehow I can’t. Mum wanted me to find him and put the family back together.’

  On the anniversary of her mother’s death, Christine, Bob and Kate decided to go to the cemetery and lay some flowers. As they pulled into the car park, Bob noticed that someone else was at the grave. The man was kneeling, his head in his hands.

  ‘Who can that be?’ Bob asked. ‘I can’t recognise them from this distance.’

  Christine had been staring at the roses in her hands. She looked up and peered at the man. Her heart leapt. ‘Justin!’ she cried. Tears flowed as she raced from the car and took her son in her arms.

  A few days later, Christine went out to feed the peacock. He was nowhere to be seen. She looked under the shrubs, peered into the trees. He was gone. She sat on the bench, feeling a little lost without her feathered companion.

  Justin joined her. Christine smiled and held out her hands to her son. ‘Come, sit with me.’

  ‘Dad says you have a peacock down here.’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Christine informed him. ‘Just like that. Same as when he came, a year ago today. Day of Mum’s funeral.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gone to find his family,’ Justin pointed out. ‘It is spring, he needs a mate.’

  Christine squeezed her son’s hand. ‘Mum always said the only really important thing in life was family. She was right of course.’ She hugged him. ‘I’m glad she made me promise to find you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I was young and foolish. I needed to get away from family and to find myself.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she patted his shoulder.

  ‘No. I should’ve at least spoken to you and told you how I felt before I left. Crazy I know, but at 19, I was very selfish.’

  ‘At least we knew when you were in India,’ his mother replied.

  Justin grimaced. ‘Yeah, I suddenly felt guilty, not writing or anything. But I didn’t send anymore, didn’t think to really. Wish I hadn’t been so stupid now. When I got your letter, it made me stop and realise what I was missing.’ He stood up. ‘Can you forgive me?’

  His mother hugged him fiercely. No words were needed.

  ‘Come on, let’s go up to the house,’ Justin said. ‘You don’t need the peacock anymore.’

  They walked arm in arm. Christine turned to look back at the garden one more time. Mum had done her job, she’d sent Justin home. She knew her mother’s spirit would always be there to watch over her. With Justin, she entered the house.

  This item formed part of our ‘it made a most unusual noise as it landed’ week.

  Wednesday 3 April 2013

  Following Taraji

  Irene Assumpter

  West Perth, WA

  It made a most unusual noise as it landed. It had to be the stuff nightmares were made of. We held hands, closed our eyes and said our Hail Marys. As usual, my sister Taraji said it wrong. When I tried to correct her, she retorted that it did not matter.

  ‘They get the message. God, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, Jack, Beanstalk, Cinderella and all those heaveners ... heaven people. It is late and they don’t have time to analyse the words. They get tired too. Don’t analyse everything, pumpkin, okay?’

  I have grown up mastering Taraji’s words. It was not one of those okays that required an answer or a nod. It was one of those I-need-you-to-shut-up ones. Taraji is only a year older than me, but you would think she is five years older. Even now when we are no longer little children, she likes to put an assuring hand on my shou
lder to try and calm me down when I am scared, panicking or just being silly. It makes me smile. That I-am-in-good-hands feeling only a person with an older sibling can relate to makes me smile so wide.

  Our beautiful Taraji. Her name really suits her. She does bring hope at that moment when you know you are well and truly finished. She cracks jokes in the most serious of moments and manages to laugh so hard she sheds tears while at it. Her skin is a shade lighter than mine, light enough for you to see she turns a little darker during a fit of uncontrollable laughter. She is the one that coins phrases in our family. Last Christmas, she coined something along the lines of ‘united we stand, divided we sit and life goes on’.

  Taraji always reminds me how important it is to be together at all times, in all circumstances. I remember the time she broke Ma’s expensive bottle of perfume when we were trying to find hidden chocolate cookies. Taraji sweet-talked me into confessing it was my fault too. According to her, if I had not suggested checking Ma’s dresser, the bottle of perfume would not have been broken. She knows how to arrange her words. No chance in hell she would use ‘I would not have broken it’ or anything to suggest she had anything to do with it; Taraji went for ‘it would not have been broken’. Broken itself, perhaps.

  This noise. This crazy sound anyone with good ears heard is going to make me jump out of my skin. And if we get home safe and sound, Ma is going to hit the roof. We were supposed to wait for the school bus. But Taraji said it was okay. I wanted to try this double-decker bus, anyway. It was new in town.

  ‘Are we dead?’ I asked Taraji without realising what I was saying. ‘I don’t want to be dead.’

  ‘Yes, we are. You are eating ice-cream with Jesus and I am playing peek-a-boo with Saint Taraji.’

  ‘There is no such saint.’

  ‘You are younger than me. I am eleven. I know better.’

  A dry-skinned man taller than Jamu the milkman is staring at us as if we are two children with hollow heads. Jamu is taller than Kobe Bryant, so you can only imagine how tall this man is. Maybe he can even touch the sky. His eyes are so red; red like Mama Amani’s tomatoes that are grown on the other side of our backyard. The ripe ones that our other neighbour Mtundu likes to steal and eat without washing.

  Then there is this little boy who can’t stop sobbing. Maybe he needs changing. I don’t know how old he is. I think it is strange that his T-shirt is labelled ‘Winners Don’t Cry’. I really want to hold his hand and tell him things will be okay. I think he has forgotten who his mother is in this commotion. He is looking at every woman with hope in his eyes. Hope that one of them will turn into his mother.

  Then some horror of horrors with dark lips is smoking a cigarette or something. He is sitting next to an angry-looking woman whose butt is the size of China. The kind that makes her look like she is walking or standing while bending.

  Taraji nudged my side and told me she could feel her mouth burning. She always says such things when she is scared. Crazy things. Things that do not exactly take fear away, but somehow put it aside. Five minutes ago she said she felt like someone was pressing her head between two huge pieces of lead. Then when I whispered to her that I could feel my heart in my throat, she looked at me for two seconds and said, ‘Well, mine is in my mouth ready to be thrown out.’

  Now I am really scared. All was not well. This crazy sound was bad news. Nobody in his or her right mind hears that kind of sound and feels fine. It is not the sound a normal bus driven by a normal driver would make.

  And normal passengers do not scream if everything is fine.

  ‘Kaa square!’ someone yells. ‘Tulia! Sit tight! Sit tight!’

  How can this shrill voice say that? Sitting tight ... what in the world is that? I have never heard anyone say that. Not at home, not at school, not at church. We are not even sitting to start with. We are standing because we were told we were children who needed to have some respect by letting big people have our seats. This bus does not even have seat belts. Who made this bus? Someone on River Road must have made this silly, stuffy bus with stolen parts.

  ‘Which uniform is this?’ the dry-skinned man asked me. This man really needs some moisturiser or even cooking oil. Even grease, surely. ‘This green-checked uniform is which?’

  What is he saying?

  ‘Mine,’ I muttered.

  Taraji gave me one of our many family looks. The one that means, ‘Ma said we should not talk to strangers; strangers kidnap children and ask for ransom.’

  ‘I mean, it is for school which?’

  ‘We don’t talk to strangers,’ I said.

  There is an ambulance on the way. I can hear it. How this bus landed upright on a ditch is beyond me. Someday when I am older, I will tell the whole story. How it all started. How I really did want to try the gorofa bus but would have waited for the school bus, if Taraji had listened to me. Taraji said experience is the best professor at the University of Nairobi. I will tell everyone I wanted to go to UoN for my first pedigree, so I had to listen to Taraji.

  I think we are going to be just fine, except my left hand is numb. I cannot turn my neck either. I don’t know whether to tell Taraji or not. She looks even more scared than I am. I want to hope that we are going to be rushed to Wallaby King’s Hospital or something like that, somewhere Ma can find us. Ma will hug us and smile at the doctors and nurses all night, but she will also whisper ‘you just wait till we get home’ when no one is looking.

  We are going to be just fine. Fine and ready for Ma to kill us.

  This item formed part of our ‘it made a most unusual noise as it landed’ week.

  Wednesday 3 April 2013 4 pm

  Obituary Notice

  C.G. Freedman

  Rouse Hill, NSW

  Francis’ demise was a wholly unsavoury affair. Within the confines of a warm and welcoming drinking establishment is where Francis, a man of unmatchable quality, spent his final hours. He had resided in one of the rooms on the top floor for some days now free of charge. However, let it be known that while Francis enthusiastically accepted charity, he was no beggar. He was a firm believer in the old adage that home is where the heart is, and his heart had nestled gently in the hands of those who graciously accepted him into their homes.

  Francis breathed his last breaths doing what he did best – spreading good cheer like the sun scatters its rays. In fact, Francis had about him a warmth almost equal in radiance to that of the sun. Standing by the bar, he took a sip from a beer placed before him by one of the benefactors of his merriment as he concluded one of his many entertaining personal anecdotes.

  ‘We lacked the requisite funds to buy ourselves a round,’ said he, face beaming with joviality. ‘That no chance in this life were we going to buy him a drink!’

  His little audience chuckled, as our absorbing orator continued. He was nearing the end of a favourite in his extensive repertoire of anecdotes. This was the one about the guy who promised to dance on the piano at a club with more than its share of swank if only this group of strangers would shout him a drink.

  ‘It was at this stage that he spied the remnants of a drink from earlier in the night, sitting in the middle of our table. He asked if he could finish it off and we all shrugged and said, “If you really want.” So back he threw it back with a cough and splutter before leaping up onto that elegant ebony piano!’

  The audience were in tears as Francis ploughed on.

  ‘It gets better,’ he said with a mischievous grin. ‘He didn’t know it at the time, but the drink he just finished had been there for hours!’ The laughter increased. ‘No one knew who had been drinking from it!’ He had to speak up over the laughter. ‘But wait, what he also didn’t know at the time was that we had been using it as an ashtray!’ The laughter was uncontainable now. ‘He was just dancing around up there on that piano!’ Francis acted out this little dance. A deft touch. ‘He had no idea!’ Francis prepared now for his big finish.

  ‘Here’s the twist though,’ he said, focusing their a
ttention as they sobbed with laughter. ‘That idiot dancer was me!’

  They burst.

  Quite simply, they burst.

  They were clutching at their sides and slapping their thighs. They nearly died when Francis did his little dance again. This was Francis’ finest hour. Had he known at the time that this would be the last anecdote he ever recalled, I’d wager he’d have been content. Although the star of the show, the centrepiece, the master of ceremonies, you would be forgiven for questioning Francis’ eminence.

  Francis was one more inclined to dress for practicality’s sake, yet he managed to do so without completely rejecting some sense of style. He wore a tidy pair of maroon trousers, perhaps more of a burgundy. He dressed in layers for maximum adaptability, throwing a three quarter length high collared coat over a hooded jacket, over a light sweater, over a pale blue long sleeve ‘t’, over a singlet top. His shoes were dark and somewhat scuffed, owing in some measure to these little jigs he insisted upon, no doubt. For all appearances, there was no concealing that Francis was a seasoned traveller. The truth is, he charmed his way from door to door, meal to meal, always sincerely and politely rejecting offers of charity until being dragged into people’s homes or being practically force fed warm broth and buttery toasted bread.

  Francis was always smiling, always courteous, a modern gentleman. He spun a good yarn, timed a one liner to perfection, danced a lively jig and had the voice of a tenor! He bore nothing of value, relying instead on the rare commodity of human kindness and unflinching positivity. This is not to suggest he did not have his share of enemies, or that he cruised by conflict free. No, the truth is he had been in many a squabble, for while one can play their cards however they may choose, they cannot change the hand they’re dealt. And so it is that Francis, on occasion, would inadvertently provoke other, shall we say, less kind people into a bitter resentment, as was the case on this particular evening.

  After his masterful performance, his crowd gradually dispersed to top up their glasses and freshen up, perhaps for an encore performance (that you and I know will never come to fruition – at least not in this world). Alone, Francis was approached by a brooding pack of oversized goliaths.

  ‘You wanna keep it down, mate?!’ the biggest of the lot asked, nay demanded!

  ‘Certainly,’ replied our benign Francis with much humility. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you,’ he added to ensure a peaceful conciliation.

  ‘Are you talkin’ wise to me, boy?!’ said the behemoth stepping forward. ‘I ain’t seen you buy a drink all night,’ he continued before Francis could respond. ‘You come ’ere just to scab off payin’ customers, ’ey?’

  Again, Francis was denied any chance of justifying his position.

  ‘Why don’t you piss off an’ free up some space for us payin’ customers?!’

  Francis knew better than to answer this, the latest in this aggressive line of questioning. Surely it was not designed to elicit a reasoned response. Francis remained silent and firmly rooted where he felt he had a right to remain. For a modern gentleman, matters of honour remain a high priority.

  ‘You ’eard me! Piss off!’ and with this the ruffian took a swing at poor Francis, a modern gentleman who never throws the first punch. Fortunately, Francis was quick enough to step back and avoid his foe’s first fist, unfortunately the same cannot be said of the scoundrel’s second swing. Francis hit the floor with a thud.

  Now, our dear Francis did not have a fighter’s physique by any stretch of the imagination, but he more than made up for this with a lion’s share of a fox’s wits about him. As goliath turned to collect his accolades from his brutish crew, Francis concluded that now was perhaps the appropriate time for him to relocate, to find a new place to rest his weary head for the night. Wiping his bloodied nose on the back of his sleeve he retaliated in one smooth motion. Down came the antagonist’s trousers as he himself rose, then, with a heavy shove in the small of his great back, David floored Goliath! There he lay, face flat on the floor, bare backside exposed to the world. His crew stumbled over backwards to avoid being crushed under the form of this toppling giant, allowing Francis the time and space, though somewhat lacking they appeared to be, to walk across the exposed posterior of his enemy and out onto the street beyond. Sadly, Francis was sorely outnumbered and outmatched. A quick thinking mind such as Francis possessed is all well and good until it’s spread across the pavement before you. It made a most unusual noise as it landed, a supernova collapsing into a void. A loosened brick brings Francis’ story to this abrupt end.

  This item formed part of our ‘it made a most unusual noise as it landed’ week.

  Thursday 4 April 2013

  Dignity

  Ruth Withers

  Uarbry, NSW

  My Dignity has run away. Has anybody seen it? No doubt it’s found a comfy place to hide. Somewhere it can watch me from as I struggle to cope without it. Oh, it’ll be somewhere close at hand, enjoying my discomfort.

  I should’ve known it would come to this. Dignity always was weak and sickly. When we were little and people picked on us, it’d slink away into some dark corner, leaving me to manage as best I could alone.

  As teenagers, it was nowhere to be found when the boys started hanging around. It never even tried to help me. I think that’s when I first began to suspect that it wasn’t what it claimed to be. Every time I tried to stand on my Dignity for support it simply crumbled and left me in a heap in the dirt. I began to think it was laughing at me too.

  The strange thing was though, that every time my Dignity deserted me to run and hide, it nevertheless seemed to incur a terrible beating. It was a little like a perverted version of Dorian Grey’s portrait. I took the knocks and my Dignity got the bruises.

  After the birth of each child it was left so shrivelled and bruised that I wondered whether it could survive. When my marriage was on its way to the marital graveyard, Dignity ran after it, screaming, ‘Take me with you!’ As that marriage breathed its last, my Dignity glared at me in disgust and curled itself into a wizened little ball reminiscent of a raisin.

  Through all of this and so much more I never once deserted Dignity. No, sir. Not once. I tended its wounds and fed it nourishing food to build up its strength. Since it wouldn’t defend itself, I did my level best to protect it. Sometimes I surprised both of us with a small success, but alas, it was always short-lived.

  We were mismatched, my Dignity and I. Somewhere in the world is someone who got short-changed – big time. My Dignity always knew I wasn’t worthy of it. I was supposed to get the runty Dignity that couldn’t shrink any further. The one I got was far too big for me and had to spend all its time trying to make itself fit.

  Oh, why didn’t I realise it sooner?! My poor Dignity! It was like an eagle trapped in a budgie cage. It couldn’t stand up for me – or even defend itself. It was meant to belong to someone of far greater substance; to perch, preening on the shoulder of royalty or some such. My poor old Dignity was never meant to have to defend its existence. It should simply have been on display; unquestioned and unchallenged.

  Instead, it found itself allocated to me. Who did I think I was? What made me think I was entitled to its services? What poor royal personage was suffering the indignity of being lumbered with the diminished Dignity that should have been mine? Is it any wonder my Dignity despised me?

  All the same, now that I come to ponder on it, there were moments when Dignity relented a little and stepped forward to shield me. Only in my very darkest moments, mind you, when my defences were completely down; when I had nothing left to fight with. At those times Dignity grew suddenly strong and purposeful, holding me up and forcing me to go on. At those times we worked together, forcing our way through the bracken and thorny brambles of my life. Now, why would it do that when it so despised me?

  Perhaps it was in the interest of self-preservation?

  Maybe, just maybe, being stuck with me was better than having no-one. Maybe old Dignity couldn’t su
rvive on its own, however unworthy it considered me. Now that thought puts recent events in a whole different light, doesn’t it? I know I can survive without Dignity. I’ve had to – many times. The question is, if the tables were turned, could Dignity survive? It just might be time to put that to the test.