This year the Discovery Writers, meeting regularly at the Miles Franklin Room at the Hurstville City Library, explored the theme of place in its many and varied meanings: the places where we live, where we’ve come from, where we’re going. Places in the memory and I the imagination…
We hope you enjoy this year’s offerings. Once again, we’d love to hear what you think of our work.
PP Cranney
Workshop Facilitator/Editor
Hurstville Discovery Writers 2009
Workshop Facilitator/Editor
Hurstville Discovery Writers 2009
Nov 2009
This is where I am
by Maria Bechet
It’s been five years since I arrived in Sydney, on a hot Monday afternoon, after a twelve-hour flight from Johannesburg, a flight that would have been completely unremarkable had it not been for the accidental triggering of an emergency announcement at around 4 am, when we were somewhere over the vast Indian Ocean. I thought at the time that the plane must have been full of Australians because everyone seemed to be remaining incredibly calm. Of course, the plane was cruising beautifully- I guess that was the giveaway.
I remember the intense heat of that day and the welcoming feeling of the sun on my skin. And over time, I’m getting to know this place, the smells and the sounds and the pace. But many aspects are still foreign to me. I haven’t been to the Great Barrier Reef. I haven’t driven the Great Ocean Road or been to Kangaroo Island or Tasmania, let alone Western Australia or South Australia or anywhere in the mythical Northern Territory. I haven’t even tasted kangaroo meat. I’ve only just figured out what a snag is and Christmas seafood queues are still a puzzling phenomenon. But at least I have been over Tom Ugly’s Bridge. Many, many times. Yes, I am becoming part of this place, but I also have places that are in me, and I have brought them with.
The first place I have is an Indian Ocean island, Ile Maurice, a tropical paradise of coral-fringed lagoons of pale aquamarine and miles and miles of tall sugarcane and bursting bougainvilleas and Casuarina trees fringing the beaches. I have the balminess of the air and the friendliness of the people and the bustle of the markets imprinted on my brain.
‘Dhalpourri, Madame?’
‘Oui, merci.’
I could eat those dhal pancakes all day. Or the little chilli bites or the sweet potato fritters or the pink-iced shortbread ‘napolitaine.’
Then the place in me changes. It is not as sentimentally perfect as the island, the sense of it is at first dusty and wild. It is southern Africa. Workers catch a black mamba – a deadly African tree snake— in the back yard when I am just a little girl. I hear their screams when they first spot it. I see them chopping off its head with a big panga knife once they’ve caught it. And then there is growing up in suburbia in me, a beachside town; there is going down to the beach to watch the boys surf, there is friendship, there is happiness, there is school and there is uni. And there is pain. That place has pain written all over it. It is 21-year-old Eugene, stabbed to death on a train for some new shoes and his mobile phone, bought with some money his dad had left him in his will. He was studying to become an engineer. That day, I said, ‘I hate this place,’ and I think I brought some of that hatred with me. I hope it will go.
Then there is something altogether different, a place of sometimes seemingly endless grey skies and wet-cold dripping down the back of my coat; of cosy country pubs and the smells of Sunday roast and a half pint of beer. It is London. There is green, a lot of green, and a lot of history in the buildings and the roads and the people. There is the fountain maze, and the village green and daylight till ten pm in summer, with Pimm’s in the garden, laden with mint. There is huddling in the conservatory at the end of autumn to watch the Guy Fawkes fireworks and black ice on the road in winter, till the snow comes. There is work and studying and children and swimming lessons and school fetes and snowball fights. And there is travel from there, a lot of travel, an eclectic collage of places in me, there is a road trip through France, Italy and Greece and England, Scotland and Wales, champagne and moussaka and espresso and eisteddfods and driving on the opposite side of the road all mixed up and competing for a spot.
I have brought these places with me, and now they are merging with this new place. I walk along the beachfront at Elouera in Cronulla all the way down to where I can see the arc of Jibbon Beach on the southern shore of Port Hacking in the Royal National Park. It is a glorious winter Sydney day where spring is a close certainty and you can feel the excitement in the air. I feel this beautiful place seeping into my bones, becoming a part of me.
This is where I am.
The Placebook
by Margo Ruckert
An Australian internet company is set to launch a similar site to the phenomenal Facebook. Rumours are cycling round the city faster than couriers but it can be revealed that the site will feature places instead of faces. Participants will be asked to photograph a significant place and describe it in less than 140 characters.
“What a great opportunity for English students”, said M/s T. Bag, retired High School Teacher, “It’s good to see concise writing essential; something we’ve been banging on about, on the whiteboard, of course, for years”.
Each participant will be able to match its place with others. A beach may wish to partner an inland farm; a rainforest could make friends with a kitchen; a cave may prefer other underground friends, like cellars; lizards of lounge rooms might find their animal kingdom relatives. The possibilities are only limited by the imagination of the “Placers”.
As stated in the press release “Here’s an opportunity to build up knowledge of the world and make friends while you do it.” Placers will have the opportunity to couch surf or garden dig if Placebook friends are in agreement.
Friends of Facebook are enthusiastic, suggesting positive outcomes for the new site. Lost places will be searched out, recognized and hugged. Places will no longer be lonely, having that “stay at home feeling”. They will move out onto the Net. They will be found.
I AM BORN
By Jill Samera
Swimming here inside you
I am free to rest
To wake
To sleep.
Floating here inside you I am free to explore
And adore that you love me -
Here in your warm wet love, my place,
my home -
Flying free with my safety umbilical strap
I am free to roam
The skies within you.
I open my eyes,
I close them.
I suck my thumb,
I hear your drum
And we beat a rhythm our very own,
Our composition,
In our home.
Lying here inside you
I am free
to be born
free.
What awakens me? Your dream?
What urges my legs to jolt?
My hands to push against your warm, wet love?
My eyes open and close,
My legs are restless,
My spine it grates against your spine.
I hear your screams
There is no time
I twirl I twine, I face your spine, an opening!
I slide, I push, awaken your voice again,
And we are free!
Your yelling voice relentless, your release, my release
Ha! I can pop my head through, I must,
I must
Discover
What is on the other side.
I am being born,
It is cool, it is dry, it is too bright, so
I cry.
I am born.
Warm wet love come back
Hold me close
And you are here.
Cheek to breast
Breast to cheek
I hear your voice
And feel the thud of your heart on my ear…
Ah! Our composition! And my lips find warm wet love
As we suckle as one
I have discovered
I have discovered
You are still here
We are still one.
I am born.
The Birthday Party
By Rama Juta
There was feverish activity over the forthcoming birthday and a lot of excitement in the air. The venue was a short distance from the home. The colour scheme was to be pink and white. In accordance with this, the tablecloths were to be pink; chair covers white, tied with pink bows. Each table had to have a white vase filled with pink and white roses interspersed with baby’s breath. The cake was to be in the shape of a rose and have pink and white icing.
The few living friends and loyal neighbours were invited. The rest were family including sons, daughter, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews.
It was the birthday of Nancy Cullen. She was one of those feisty, tough old ladies. She’d been through difficult times but would not let anything get her down. She’d outlived her husband y thirty years but was not one to moan or groan. She’d retained the good memories but believed in moving forward.
After the loss of her husband she joined Probus Club, attended their meetings and joined in their activities. She knitted socks and baby jackets for community organisations. She also volunteered for Meals on Wheels.
She got on well with her two sons but did not see eye to eye with her daughter. They were always at loggerheads. Her favourite daughter-n-law was Jane, who supported her decision to live independently in her old rambling house, which was comfortable. She had long decided that she would not see the doors of a nursing home.
She enjoyed gardening and lovingly cared for her roses which were her favourite flowers. She was rewarded with perfect white and pink blooms. She also had a vegetable garden which yielded luscious tomatoes and fragrant herbs.
She enjoyed gardening and lovingly cared for her roses which were her favourite flowers. She was rewarded with perfect white and pink blooms. She also had a vegetable garden which yielded luscious tomatoes and fragrant herbs.
She was a good cook and took pride in having family Christmas at her home every year. On one of these occasions she fell, had a fracture of the hip and needed a hip replacement. From there it was a steady downhill course.
She continued to live in her home accepting care, and now it was her time to accept Meals on Wheels. She became short of breath and was on several medications for her heart. Mentally, she was alert, listened to the news and read the newspaper. Her daughter-in-law Jane visited her daily.
On one of these occasions, she discussed the final arrangements for the birthday. Nancy Cullen was happy to go along with the family’s wishes but specified she wanted soft background music of the fifties. She was not told that she could expect a card from the Queen and the Premier.
After the daughter-in-law left, Mrs Cullen had a light super. She felt a slight discomfort in her chest and decided to have an early night. She snuggled into her warm bed. She died peacefully in her sleep three weeks before she became a centenarian. Her Family were greatly saddened but decided to celebrate her life.
Esme – A True Story
By Freda M. Smith
She watched the sullen sky with dread as the wind screeched all around,
The thunder roared a warning and the lightening ran to ground.
A strange fear clutched her mortal soul for the creek was riding high:
She knew the children had to cross the treacherous Curreeki.
The cattle gathered round the yard, they seemed to smell the rain
As it drenched the Copeland Mountains and cascaded down the glen.
She’d have to leave the milking, there must be no delay.
She ran across the paddock and saddled up the bay.
The little ones rode bareback to the school down in the vale;
They would need her help to get back home as the wind turned to a gale.
She met them at a farm downstream and they turned the horses home.
By now the sky had opened up and the rain came tumbling down.
They trailed along the dangerous track around the mountainside;
A hoof put wrong could loose a stone and start a muddy slide.
They reached the treacherous crossing with its broken, craggy bank.
She watched with trepidation as the debris swirled and sank.
She tied the children on the bay - he’d always been true blue,
And prayed the hack was strong enough to swim and make it through
Alas the old hack stumbled and the water gushed around
And swallowed up the pair of them as the precious bay made ground.
The children cried aloud with grief running up and down the side,
Their world would never be the same; they scanned the murky tide.
When the raging storm abated, men came from miles around
And searched the banks and gullies as the water settled down.
A lad named Blue had searched all day, his friend he’d hoped to find.
And in his troubled sleep that night a dream brought her to mind.
He saw her floating near a tree amid the leaves and grass.
He hurried to the place next morn, great sadness filled his heart.
They found her body cradled in the roots of that old tree
Where the creek and river wandered on its way to meet the sea.
They buried her with love and care with flowers all around,
A tribute to the thoughtfulness of their sister who had drowned.
An extract from My Place in Time
by Carol Reynolds
Today I am visiting my daughter to assist her by looking after my grandson, Tom. He is a very active fellow so in order to let his mum catch up on her chores I will take him to his favourite park. My daughter has recently purchased a home in Gymea, my old stamping ground. That fact is stirring up vivid details of my upbringing.
I follow what I believe to be the quickest route by car and head down President Avenue, turning right at North West Arm Road. I observe that houses have replaced the considerable bushland that I knew. There is a sign post indicating the natural stone bridge which crosses over Dents Creek just metres from the edge of the road. I remember that little marvel of nature was somewhat harder to access in earlier times. At the first major intersection I make a left turn at the roundabout (or pimple, as I call them) which leads to Gymea Bay Road. This route was not an option when I lived in Gymea – the bushland formed a barrier.
Momentarily I reflect on the ample freedom I was allowed once I was a teenager, often spending idle weekend hours with my girlfriend riding our bikes. Sometimes we packed a picnic lunch and cycled down North West Arm Road toward Gray’s Point to one of our favourite spots, the ‘Stepping Stones’ where the fresh water of Dents Creek escaped from its forested surroundings to join the salt water of the Port Hacking River. There was a wonderful feeling of independence and escapism as we free-wheeled downhill to our destination, only applying the brakes when our speed exceeded our courage. Unfortunately on a hot summer’s day after enjoying a nice refreshing swim, all therapeutic benefit was lost by having to walk our bikes back up the hill on the return journey. Sadly in latter years the ‘Stepping Stones’ were removed and I only have a newspaper clipping to bear witness to their existence.
On my right hand side as I reach Gymea Bay Road are the sporting fields, much improved since the days I played netball. Good old Gymea Gazelles, what success my team had wearing the green and white striped uniforms, success which was achieved initially through the efforts of a very dedicated teacher at my school, Miss or Mrs Burke. I could use the term Ms today, which would save me trying to recall her marital status!
Travelling along Gymea Bay Road past my old primary school, I see it looks much as I left it apart from a few modern trappings such as the huge playground covers and surrounding security fence. The local tennis courts which were located opposite the school have morphed into yet another villa complex. I swerve around another pimple past ‘The Old School Park’ and veer right heading towards the small group of shops to my destination.
Able to pre-announce my arrival via one of life’s modern inventions, the mobile phone, Tom is waiting for grandma at the front gate ready for his visit to ‘The Old School Park’ – otherwise named by my grandson as ‘Turtle Park’ because a turtle drawing appears on a piece of the park equipment . The park occupies the site of the original Gymea Bay Public School which opened in 1935. It was the first school I attended but as the population grew students were gradually relocated to newly built premises up the road at its present location in 1953.
When I look back on my school years I consider they were some of the best years of my life – a daily adventure. I was fortunate not to experience a concrete jungle but rather a bush playground. When I started school my playground was gravel which provided a great resource for imaginative play. Stones could be arranged on the ground in various ways to depict whatever one wished them to be, a dungeon perhaps or rooms in a house. It was easy to find a twig or branch to scrawl a hopscotch grid in the dirt and I can only wonder if some of the trees from which I extracted ‘blood’ to play fairy queens and witches are still watching me as I push my grandson on the swings nearby.
Recalling my 1st class photo I remember counting 36 children and in 2nd class, 42, with the then infants headmistress, Miss Cook, the class teacher. A notation on the back of that photograph said ‘the best teacher in the world’. While that can never be substantiated I can only remember having inspiring teachers and wonder if they would be able to manage 42 of today’s children in a classroom.
I don’t have any recollection of there being a school tuck shop when I started school so perhaps it was something that came a little later. Some of the gourmet delights which were on the menu were cold spaghetti and cold baked bean sandwiches. One of my favourites was a banana sandwich which was sprinkled with sugar, often liberally, depending on the inclination of the volunteer mum.
Of course, school day nostalgia would not be complete without mentioning the bottle of fresh milk, one for each child each day, under a government scheme existing at the time. Today, the thought of consuming a bottle of warm milk which had on occasions stood in the sun for longer than desirable, would send me to the bathroom. Can you imagine the uproar from parents today if little Johnny was expected to consume anything, let alone milk, by government decree?
As reflected in the symbols of the school – the emblem of the Gymea Lily, the motto ‘Forever Flourishing’ and words contained in the school song – students enjoyed an atmosphere which nurtured respect for the environment, our native plants and animals and indigenous culture. School house names were the aboriginal names of birds, mine being Wonga-wonga - the pigeon. Others were Thirrie-thirrie - the willy wagtail, Kiara - the white cockatoo and Tywan - the lyrebird.
Gymea Bay Public School enjoyed a proud sporting reputation. Strong and healthy competition was encouraged at every level. I again credit Mrs/Miss Burke for producing such a disciplined team of captain ballers and tunnel ballers as you are ever likely to encounter in sporting competition. I was privileged to be a recipient of such dedication.
Learn to Swim classes were part of the curriculum and took place at the now heritage listed Gymea Bay Baths. My only recollection of such excursions is when I cut my wrist on an oyster shell which had decided to adhere itself to the pool ladder. While I still enjoy swimming, the appeal of a crystal clear, tiled swimming pool would over ride any thought of returning to those Baths!
‘Grandma, I want to go home now.’ Hearing my grandson Tom’s voice disperses my memory cloud and returns me to reality.
‘Yes darling, time to take you home for some lunch and your afternoon sleep.’
THE HOUSE IN RAINBOW PLACE
by Heather Campbell
Derek strolled along Rainbow Place, Mortdale, thoroughly enjoying his lunch.
'You can’t beat fish and chips,' Derek thought, screwing up the wrapper of butcher's paper and chucking it thoughtlessly into the gutter. He wiped his greasy fingers on his scruffy, ripped jeans and brushed away strands of his long black hair from his face. Then something to his left caught Derek’s eye and he stopped in his tracks
‘Where did that come from?’ Derek only lived around the corner and had walked up and down this ordinary suburban street many times, but he’d never seen this place. ‘How could I have missed this?’ he thought.
Derek could not take his eyes off this neglected, double-storeyed Federation house. An air of sadness hung over it like a pall. Derek was not sure if it was his imagination, but he thought he heard the house cry.
This mournful house was built of black brick, with white, ageing grouting that had collapsed in places, leaving gaps for insects, spiders and lizards to move into. The cracked, chocolate-coloured, fungus-ridden, tiled roof let in the rain, dust, and birds.
The two large timber windows at the front of the house either side of the front door had given up their white paint a long time ago revealing grey cracked timber. In places nails had slipped out leaving timber pieces dangling limply. Cracked or smashed windowpanes hung precariously within their rotting frame.
The recessed front door, with its glass porthole, hid in the shadows as if afraid to come out into the light. The top hinge hung loosely, causing the door to lean plaintively towards the doorjamb. Glancing upwards Derek observed the pitiful state of the upper half of the house.
There were two large timber windows at either end of the house, with a smaller one in the middle, all in the same condition as the windows downstairs.
The gutters boasted so many holes that now they hung in fragile and ragged pieces, making it impossible to tell what they hung on to.
‘Geesus! What a bloody mess,’ thought. Derek. ‘Who allowed this to happen? What’s going to happen to it? I bet it’ll be torn down and another duplex built on the site. How can people be so heartless towards our heritage? I suppose where progress is concerned nobody gives a shit.’
As Derek’s shock at seeing this derelict house abated, curiosity crept in. Derek gathered courage, which he did not know he had, and slowly made his way along the broken, concrete pathway that resembled crazy paving. At the door, Derek pushed slowly and carefully until it gave way, gouging a groove on the floor as it opened.
Looking back towards the street to see if anyone watched him, Derek with growing resolve stepped inside. Instantly, a nauseating musty smell caused Derek to reel. He started coughing and sneezing so violently Derek thought his head was going to snap off. Pulling a dirty hanky out of his pocket, Derek gave his nose a blow, thereby quickly clearing his head.
‘Geesus! This place stinks,’ gasped Derek. ‘But all the windows are broken. There’s plenty of fresh air in here. What’s causing such a pong?’
Though his need for fresh air was overwhelming, Derek decided against his better judgment to stay. ‘I’m not going back now. Besides, I’ve never broken into a house before - it’s quite exciting.’
Walking along the narrow, dingy hall towards the back of the house, Derek wondered if the whole house was like this. Then suddenly he was breathing in fresh air as he stretched himself to his full height with relief.
He had stepped into a large room that boasted big, broken, timber windows, with French doors in the middle. Grateful that the stink was gone, Derek scanned the room and noticed that at one end there were taps and pipes attached to the wall, mixed with fragments of cupboards, and cracked or broken power points. Derek guessed that this must have been a kitchen.
‘What happened here?’ thought Derek, getting slightly jumpy. ‘Why would anybody want to destroy a kitchen? I bet vandals have been in here. They’ve nicked the kitchen,. Gee! Some people would have to be desperate.’
Looking through one of the broken windows of the French doors, Derek saw what he took to be remnants of an above-ground swimming pool in the weed- ridden garden. ‘I bet a happy family lived here once,’ thought Derek.
Not seeing anything else of interest to him in the room, Derek decided to explore the remainder of the house. Making his way back along the dark, dingy hall once again, Derek quickly ascended the creaky stairs. About half way up, he heard squeaking noises from the rooms above, but the desire to escape the dark, dingy hall drove Derek on, until he reached the top.
‘Nothing up here!’
Disappointed, Derek wandered from dusty room to dusty room. Three average sized bedrooms with a bathroom at the back and nothing else. Odd though! From the gouges and bolt holes on the walls it looked like all the bedrooms had had built in wardrobes, but not any more.
‘What happened to them?’ Derek asked himself. ‘I bet the thieves who nicked the kitchen, nicked the cupboards as well. What a hoot, eh! But we do live in an age of recycling.’
As boredom took hold, Derek headed back towards the stairs. Half way across the landing, Derek spotted a tiny object tucked away in the gloom between the bottom of the banister rail and one wall. He pounced upon the object with glee. ‘So this house isn’t quite so empty after all.’
Moving further into the light that shone through a bedroom door, Derek examined the tiny object, turning it over and over. ‘This has to be the tiniest doll that I have ever seen,’ he mumbled. The tiny doll was soft and squishy, but dirty, as well as badly worn, with an eye missing and a ripped arm, with stuffing poking out.
‘Maybe this was a much-loved doll, but a now lost one. Poor kid!’
Carefully placing the tiny doll on top of the banister rail, Derek slowly made his way down the stairs. He stopped half way, as he thought he heard squeaking noises upstairs again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as he turned to look back upstairs.
The doll had gone. Shadows flickered across one wall. .
With wobbly legs, Derek rushed down the stairs, out of the house and onto the footpath to safety. Stopping for one last look, Derek thought he saw movement in an upstairs room, but quickly put it down to sunlight playing upon the broken glass.
‘Nah! No such things as ghosts,’ laughed Derek, with his hands on his hips. ‘Just too much imagination.’ Still laughing at his own silliness, Derek walked away.
THE EXPATRIATE
by Annie Organ
It was a windy monsoonal night in Kuala Lumpur. In the Rasa Sayang Nightclub, Sam Good ordered a drink and settled down at a table closest to the stage.
Macy looked attractive that night rendering her favourite song, Ave Maria, to the mesmerized audience. Among them, she sensed Sam’s deep blue foreign eyes focused on her. After her number, she went to his table to say hello. He stood up and offered his hands, congratulating her on her singing. They both felt the spark between them
Back at his bungalow, surrounded by a garden of fragrant hibiscus, frangipani and red roses, Sam told her he was an expatriate working as a manager in the palm oil industry. He had just returned from a holiday in his hometown in Sydney. His wife had promised to join him soon in KL, but had rung that night to say that she had decided to stay in Australia for a year instead. Sam felt very upset and betrayed.
The next morning, warmly tucked in bed with Sam, Macy told Sam of her sad past. She had had a wonderful marriage with Shen, a fishmonger who lover her very much. He had a good business at the day and night market at Jinjang, and worked hard to give her a wonderful life. They had a daughter called Amy. She enjoyed the pleasures of a dutiful housewife, taking care of her own little family, until one day tragedy struck. Shen was killed in a car accident. As a widow, she had to travel constantly with her mother, who was a door-to-door salesperson. Her life was miserable, and exhausting. for her daughter, who had to go everywhere with them.
Macy finally went on to do what she had secretly desired. She had a good voice and could dance well and so it was inevitable that she ended up working in a nightclub.
Macy soon settled into Sam’s luxurious bungalow which came with an amah, who saw to all their household needs and cooked sumptuous native meals, and a pekebu, who watched over the garden like a hawk. Her only job was to keep Sam happy while he was off-duty from his palm oil plantation, and keep herself busy at the mahjong tables, while he was on-duty. It was an arrangement that suited them both very well.
Soon Macy gave up her nightclub career but not her gambling habits. Sam was giving her substantial amounts of money so she could afford as many mahjong sessions as she wished while Sam was at work. However, luck was seldom on her side and she was starting to borrow money from loan sharks.
A year flew by and Sam’s wife Anne came back for a visit. She decided to stay for a year this time, and Macy had to conveniently disappear into a motel on the other side of the town. The amah and the pekebun were tight-lipped about the illicit affair, and Sam played the part of a devoted husband, while also seeing Macy after work most days.
And then it happened. Against their wishes Macy was pregnant. She had declared that she had become barren after the difficult and dangerous birth of her daughter, Amy. She was told she would never to bear a child again. She thought she was safe. Sam and Macy dealt with the situation as best they could. The baby would be cared for by Macy’s mother and no one was to be any wiser. Sam named his son Harry Good and registered himself as ‘Australian’ on the birth certificate.
After a year Anne went back to Australia, never to return. She was sick of the tropical heat, the mosquitoes, and the spicy food. Sam would return home to her once a year for a month. And it suited both of them well. Sam liked his job with his company and was glad to renew his contract every three years. The money was good and the life style was excellent. Plus he had Macy to keep him company.
Their affair continued for ten years until Sam was forced to resign due to a recession in the industry. Though anticipated, it was heart breaking when it came time to say goodbye to his mistress and love child. Sam promised to keep in touch and take care of them financially. He set up a private post-office box where all his mail could go to without Anne’s suspicion.
On returning home Sam started the life of a dedicated husband, while still corresponding with Macy and sending money for Harry. Eighteen months later Macy wrote ‘I will be moving to another state soon. Do not send any mail till I send you my new address.’ However, she never wrote again.
Soon after Anne got very ill and passed away. Sam was devastated as he truly loved his wife in spite of their separations. For another year he struggled on with the job he picked up upon his return from Malaysia. Then he got restless and started thinking about catching up with Macy again. So he planned a trip back to Kuala Lumpur to see some old friends and to try and locate her. Singh, an ex-colleague was very helpful, and they started the search extensively, questioning many people who used to live near Macy. The result was devastating. Macy had gone into hiding after absconding with some money from friends and loan sharks, from whom she had borrowed large sums to feed her gambling addiction. Sam returned home after the fruitless search shocked and disappointed.
For the next 18 years he lived a lonely bachelor’s life. He lived day-by-day, working, reading, watching TV and seeing a few friends. It was an existence of a single 65-year old man who had accepted that life would never get any better.
Meanwhile, Harry had grown into a handsome young man, with fair skin, light brown hair and prominent Asian features. In fact, he looked a bit like his father Sam.
He was now nearing the end of a vacation in Sydney. He had come with his parents to visit ex-neighbours from KL who happened to have a beautiful daughter, Mayling, a few years younger than Harry. Harry and Mayling got on very well, making their parents’ attempts at matchmaking unnecessary.
As Mayling helped Harry pack his bags in a tiny two-bedroom flat at Campsie, trying to fit in as much as possible— he had bought lots of souvenirs for his friends back home — Harry confided in Mayling about his unsuccessful efforts to locate his biological father. Mayling encouraged him not to give up and suggested that they try the telephone book again. They opened up to the well-used and partly torn page containing nearly two-dozen names listed as ‘S. Good’.
‘He might not even live in Sydney anymore,’ said Harry despondently.
‘Just try one more time,’ urged Mayling.
Harry shrugged but Mayling picked up the phone and started dialling the numbers that Harry had not crossed out. The first several attempts yielded Sues and Shanes and Seans — even a Sunny and a Sherlock. Harry grew more depressed. ‘Come on, it’s hopeless,’ he muttered. Mayling persuaded him to make one last attempt.
.
The telephone rang and Sam got to it just in time. He was asked if his name was Sam Good and if he had ever worked in Malaysia. He said yes to both questions, wondering what it was all about. The young man on the other end had a clear, precise voice. He claimed he was Harry Good from Kuala Lumpur. Sam nearly fell off his chair.
Harry was leaving Sydney the very next day There was no time to waste, they had a lot to catch up on — could they possibly fit 30 years in 24 hours? They would try. All they needed was to hug, to hold each other, to feel, to smell, to be father and son.
They met in a café in the city that afternoon. Harry told Sam his adopted parents gave him the world. Educated in an exclusive private school, he went to the best university in Canada and graduated as a doctor a few years ago. Now he had his own private practice in KL. Life had been a truly blessed one, but there was a piece missing in his fortunate life. He had felt lonely in his heart and had been searching for Sam for some time.
In time, Sam learned the truth: Harry had been given up for adoption when he was five years old, while Sam was still in Malaysia. While he thought his son was in the good hands of Macy’s mother, Macy had sold his little boy to a childless, wealthy couple.
Now Harry had two good reasons to come to Sydney: to see Mayling, with whom he had fallen in love, and to spend treasured time with Sam his aging biological dad.
For each of them, father and son, a missing link had been found. Though often in their thoughts, they rarely spoke of Macy.
CHILDHOOD ECHOES
by Pauline Kirby
The wind rustled the leaves on the footpath and tugged at the hem of her skirt. She hugged the bundle in her arms more tightly and the gate swung open at the touch of her cold hand. The small boy at her side snuggled closer to her as they approached the unfamiliar surroundings. The wide pathway curved gently through well-kept lawns, sheltered from the busy streets by tall trees and flowering shrubs. Heavy with child, she determinedly walked to the entrance of the building.
A smile fluttered momentarily across her face as the door opened. They were met by the familiar smell of disinfectant and floor polish.
Regret was swiftly stifled as her attention was caught by the bustle of the Matron, who ushered them quickly into her office. A sharp bell summoned a nurse who whisked away the bundle from her arms and the toddler from her side.
Agreement had already been reached that the children were not to be separated. It was the custom for all the children to be quickly fostered, whether or not they were related, after the lapse of a certain time. Not unkindly, Matron hurried through the paperwork. With words of reassurance ringing in her ears and a firm hand on her arm the door closed behind her and she found herself once more on the well ordered path, the click of the gate adding its voice of finality.
And yet, hope leapt in her heart as she remembered dazedly that all was not completely lost. As grief threatened to overwhelm her, it was quickly stifled as she felt the stirring of the unborn child within her. She turned her attention to the bus which trundled to a halt. It would take her to the cheap room she occupied.
The Statue
by Marjorie Virvilis
It was at Circular Quay that I saw him. He was a young well-built man covered in gold paint from head to toe. He was an ancient statue. When the sun shone on him, he glowed all over.
Crowds of people were moving around him hurrying to catch the ferry or train. In the back ground seagulls wheeled over head. I stopped and watched. I could not help admiring the young man’s perseverance. How long had he been posing there?
It was quite humid and getting hotter. Storm clouds were gathering. People crowded the pavement fascinated as I was by this motionless figure. He had a classical face: regular features with a long narrow nose. His arms and hands were held in just a position to give him grace and beauty. He gave me the impression of controlled strength.
Time passed. The crowd thinned out. A different group of spectators surrounded the young man. Not a muscle moved. Then abruptly, smoothly, he moved taking up another pose. Children laughed, the audience clapped and cheered. Coins clattered into the hat near his feet. I tried to catch his eye but he gave me no indication of seeing anyone and yet he seemed to gaze straight at me. It was a strange feeling.
I watched and waited. What would he do next? Suddenly, the heavens opened. Huge drops of rain splashed down. The thunder roared. Lightning flashed. The rain became heavier. I left in a hurry with a quick glance over my shoulder at what was a motionless statue now transformed into a moving wet and soggy figure scrambling to get out of the rain.
CHAOS THEORY
by Kathryn Yuen
‘I’ve been falling asleep on the job. I guess that’s why I’m here.’ This session is going to be work. I yawn. ‘Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping too well at night either.’ I haven’t shaved.
I look through the blonde in the maroon suit while she talks.
‘Doctors have termed it narcolepsy, but they also wonder if it is psychosomatic. Perhaps you are unconsciously suffering from excessive stress.’
She reminds me a little of my mother. ‘Tell me about your job.’
I’m not sure if she is being polite, attentive and professional at $150 plus an hour or just has no idea.
‘I’m an ambo.’
Her lips are the shade of dried blood and they move. ’What is that like for you?’
‘I wouldn’t call it easy or a bundle of laughs, but I used to be very good at it.’
I pause, wanting to finish completely but the silence is given space. I go on.
‘I know all the technical stuff and I seem to be good with most people except the kids. I guess it’s always hard on the kids. I must still be a big kid myself…’
Her manicured nails are bright red. ‘Tell me about some of the kids you’ve attended.’
I pause again. I feel like a train grinding to a halt with a promise the brakes will fail in the future.
‘There have been many kids and I guess I always feel their distress. Any decent person would. I remember a little kid who forensics said appeared to have died while sleeping through an accident. ‘
The psych now pierces me with a lustful look that is sticky. I smell blood.
‘I remember when I was a little bloke. Pandemonium broke out and I slept. I’ve always thought it a very smart move.’
The psych lady now looks like my sister. ‘Perhaps you can tell me a story … about a little boy? ‘
‘It was a long, long time ago… It was cold. He should have been asleep. He had goose bumps and it was night-time dark. The mother was sad and cranky. For hours and hours she sat in the car with her children. She didn’t drive. She didn’t have the car keys, and her bag and all the lollies, his toy soldier and teddy bear were in the boot. There were no coins in the ashtray. The father had gone to get some more money. The little boy kept saying he was hungry as his sister said nothing. Usually it was the sister’s job to play with her little brother and keep him quiet as the mother cried. The little boy pretended to sleep and be good.
When the father came back, he was mad. He’d forgotten the little kids were in the back. Then the mum started crying louder and the dad screamed. He yelled to the mum he could end it all if he stepped hard on the pedal. The sister squeezed the little boy. The little boy wished he was home watching TV and making his sister laugh. He tried not to breathe and could feel his sister blocking his ears as she covered him very tight with a coat and a rug. He could feel her start wheezing like she might choke. His sister kept moving him into the centre of the seat away from the doors. She didn’t let his legs fall off the seat. He was in a cocoon on the back seat with his head safe on his sister’s lap.
The little boy had been told by his dad the family was going out for dinner. The little boy would have been happy with fish and chips but his dad said they were going to have T-bone steak and a mixed grill. The kids could even have cutlets and bacon and cheese cake or apple pie……..and that’s the end of the story’
Silence sizzles, the heat is up and something could burn.
I announce ‘All that fried stuff’ll kill you. Transfats are carcinogenic and clog up your arteries.’
For a psychiatrist she doesn’t talk much.
‘Actually I’m a vegetarian and I don’t eat cakes or starches. They metabolise into sugar, you know, and feed candida and cancer.’
She nods like she knows. ‘I’m wondering if we can talk more about your story.’
‘Like I said, I was asleep and can’t remember much.’
