It was 5:30am on a drizzly July morning in 2012. I am in Phuket, having moved from Dubai after spending five years in the Middle East. A few stars remain at liberty in the night sky, but the auburn glow from the rising sun makes it light enough to see.
I look up, the dark clouds are here, they have approached fast and unnoticed. Their presence is heavy, bringing me back down to earth, off my grounded high.
As I hop on my bike, I think about my life in Dubai, growing more distant as each day passes. I didn’t feel at home here but knew I wanted to get acquainted with the island. Clipping my helmet in place beneath my chin, I feel as parched as the desert dunes where I had once dwelled. I reflect on the reasons I left Dubai.
My new commute takes me through a narrow and winding street through a village in the Kathu district. It is here I see the early signs of morning life; Street vendors preparing food, monks making their morning rounds in their orange-clad robes, and locals paying their respects with offerings of incense, candles, food, and drink. Approaching the first corner of the village, I slow down, the wind becomes gentle on my face. My leather gloves grip tightly to the rubber-grip handlebars of the bike as I carefully manoeuvre around potholes and puddles on the road. I take a deep breath in to appreciate my new surroundings. The aroma of the rain on the bitumen, infused with rose incense permeates the air. As I continue, the smell of charred pork fills my senses; I start to salivate as I travel in and out of the smoky barbecue haze.
As I exit the village, I pick up speed on the final stretch to work, the wind presses firmly on my face. I see dark clouds forming on the horizon, the black bitumen ahead and densely tropical vegetation that encroaches the island. The all-consuming green canvas is intoxicating. It was monsoon season and the heavy rains are welcomed by the island’s luscious foliage – an array of green grasses, palm trees, and exotic plants entangled in a sea of overgrown vines and undergrowth. High on Mother Nature, I feel a sense of euphoria, I feel grounded by this vision of Mother Earth. My senses become satiated, absorbing the scenic rain-soaked vegetation that quenches my early morning thirst.
I look up, the dark clouds are here, they have approached fast and unnoticed. Their presence is heavy, bringing me back down to earth, off my grounded high. I had seen these clouds before. I focus on the road ahead.
The call to prayer suddenly echoes across the district. . .
I look to my left and see a mosque. Its Islamic geometric silhouette is only partly visible for its once blue and white tiles, are now embraced by shrubbery and plant life. Enmeshing vines, toppled leaves, and moss coverage, camouflage this majestic beauty into the foothills of the mountain.
I pull up at work, plant my feet on the ground and remove my helmet.
The monsoon rains fall heavy.
I am lost. . .
“Kirsty! Is that you?” I heard as I rush to open my car door.
I fumbled with my umbrella, keys, and shopping bags in the heavy rain.
I turn around and see a familiar face.
It had worn over the years, but his face was still soft. His skin appeared tired but looked to have carried more laughter than trepidation. He seemed content. I could still see the teenage kid he once was with his beaming smile. It was Kenny, a high school friend I had not seen since 1997.
“Yes Kenny, it is me’’ I replied as though I had only seen him yesterday. He was one of those people you could pick up with where you left off, no matter how many years had passed.
“What are you up to?” he asked.
“Just filling the void in my life at K-Mart,” I replied.
We both laughed.
“I’ve moved back Kenny. But listen, I don’t like to rush off, but I’ve got to go and see my parents. I’ll see you around OK”.
Kenny winked, and said “welcome home Kirsty, it’s great to have you back.”
It was Father’s Day, 2020, I was 40 years old and had returned to my hometown after 20 years. I pondered what life would resemble had I made the decision to stay overseas.
Something Kenny said stayed with me as I flung my shopping bags onto the passenger seat. I repositioned myself and wriggled into my seat, I swept the wet strands of hair away from my left cheek and turned the ignition. I gazed ahead, the raindrops falling heavy, overwhelming the windshield – it’s hypnotic.
I whisper “welcome home Kirsty” and again slowly, “welcome home. . . home.”
I wondered if I had ever been home.
I looked at the clock. It’s 3:50pm. My heart feels suddenly, and overwhelmingly heavy.
I know the drive to my parents’ is the last time my life will be as I know it…
Trigger warnings: abduction, forced confinement, domestic violence and abuse
Hannah jolted back to consciousness, ears ringing from the blaring alarm. Her head felt like she was trying to wade her way through a thick fog.
Something was wrong.
Last she remembered she was about to settle into bed in her studio apartment. It was cold now and far too loud.
Her arms shook as she struggled to sit up. Nursing her head with her hands, she looked around cautiously at her surroundings. This wasn’t her apartment – far from it. The bed she now sat on had luxurious silky sheets and too many pillows. The dresser and vanity were overflowing with vases of bouquets of white flowers and the side table held the incessantly screeching alarm clock. The wallpaper however, was ancient and peeling in places and the carpet was a dull brownish-grey.
How did she get here? Where even was here?
Hannah lashed out at the alarm, her fingers scrabbling over the tiny buttons. It was suddenly blissfully quiet. Quiet enough to hear her heart thumping wildly in her chest.
Breathe in for four counts, hold for two, breathe out for four counts.
It was something she had learned to placate her nerves before a performance. Hannah loved to sing, especially for an audience. She loved the feeling of having everyone’s eyes on her, enraptured by her voice.
Hannah heard footsteps approach the room.
She flinched at the knocking.
There was a pause.
.
She didn’t answer.
.
Then more knocking – louder, more insistent this time.
Hannah was terrified. Each knock felt like a gunshot startling her. She stared at the door, hoping whoever it was would go away – hoping this was all a bad dream.
The door creaked open.
The man entering the room was deeply tanned and streaked with dirt, as were his jeans and boots. Hannah mentally placed him around 25 – young, but probably a little older than herself. Under other circumstances, she would have found him reasonably attractive. His gaze was intense, yet somewhat confused, as if he couldn’t understand why she was afraid of him. Still, he smiled softly at her. This only petrified Hannah more.
The man towered over Hannah, his arm reaching out slowly to offer her a flower. She stared at it with wide eyes – it was the same as the ones filling the room.
She didn’t move. She couldn’t.
‘Hello Hannah.’ His voice was low and smooth. ‘I thought you might like this.’
She didn’t reply, still paralysed in place.
As if a switch had been flicked, the man dropped his calm and reassuring visage and spat, ‘Don’t be so ungrateful Hannah. You were happy the last time I gave you flowers. Thanked me, even.’
Then, without any trace of the sudden anger, he smiled again. It was sickening.
His softened voice continued, ‘You were so beautiful that night, in that moment.’
Hannah pushed herself back as far as she could, desperately trying to sink into the wall and disappear. She hugged her knees to her chest.
‘I can see you don’t want to talk to me right now,’ the man said gently. ‘I’ll bring you food later, okay?’ He barely paused to place the flower in the nearest crowded vase, before he closed the door behind him.
Hannah began to hyperventilate. She had to get out of here! She jumped up and stumbled across the room, reached out to fling the door open— only to find it locked.
She rattled the door.
No!
No, no, no!
How could this happen to her?
Why was this happening to her?
Hannah tried the window next. There were thick bars affixed across it. She had to press her face against the glass to glimpse the occasional horse wander by in the adjacent paddock. If she could just get outside, she could take one of those horses and ride off before he even noticed she was gone!
Hannah thought about screaming for help, but decided the man would have taken precautions against such an obvious escape plan. She was well and truly alone. Well, not quite alone… She would have preferred alone.
Feeling resolved, Hannah clenched her fists and curled into a ball on the bed. She would have to save herself. She would have to catch him off-guard.
*
The man returned to feed her as promised. He knocked twice then came into the room without invitation. It had only been a few hours. Or was it longer? She hadn’t slept since she’d first woken up.
He entered slowly, balancing a tray of food. Hannah peered around him to the open door but hid her disappointment when he kicked it shut with his foot. It closed with a loud thud.
She was prepared to see him this time and quickly clamped down on her emotions, forced her breathing to remain even. The smell of the food was absolutely wonderful. But as soon as the thought entered her head, she felt sick to her stomach. Being grateful to this man repulsed her.
‘Here you go, Hannah,’ the man said cheerily, oblivious to her discomfort.
Hannah couldn’t take her eyes off him.
How dare he be in such a good mood?
How dare he take me!
How dare he pretend that this is all normal!
Hannah was furious. She was going to leave. No. Matter. What.
Hannah kicked out her legs, spilling the contents of the tray all over the man and ignoring his undignified yelp. She dashed for the door and pulled it open, sped through the house wildly, barely noticing where she was going. She just needed to get away.
The front door! Freedom – just a few steps more. She reached for the handle. But before her hand could grasp it, firm arms reached around her waist and pulled her back.
No!
No! Please!
Hannah screamed as the man dragged her back to the room. He threw her roughly onto the bed and slammed the door shut. In between her sobs, Hannah heard the lock click.
She cried for hours before finally collapsing long after the sun went down. In her dreams, her memory stirred –
The stage lights blinded her view of the audience, all except for a handsome man in the first row. She focussed all her attention on him as she crooned him a love ballad, and he regarded her with flames burning behind his eyes.
*
Hannah hadn’t been allowed outside at all since her last escape attempt months ago. She’d been foolish to think that Reggie trusted her. He knew the exact moment she’d decided to run and had quickly caught up and dragged her back inside. The bruises on her neck had taken a long time to heal.
She crept past Reggie napping on the sofa and set her bag down next to the back door. Through the glass, she could see the expansive backyard. It was colourful outside – green leaves and grass, flowers dotting the grey stone path – much brighter and inviting than the drab colours inside the house. Hannah could see the tree branches swaying as if they were waving to her, inviting her outside.
She longed to be there.
With a worried glance toward the lounge room, Hannah crouched down to yank the doorstop out from where she had wedged it earlier that day. The strip of industrial tape she’d placed in the doorway as Reggie came inside from his daily chores had done its job, ensuring the latch wasn’t secure. Hannah was sure that he hadn’t noticed. At the least, she would have been yelled at, the most, beaten. Reggie had quite the temper.
Breathe in for four, hold for two, out for four.
Hannah completed her breathing exercise automatically to calm herself down. In her mind’s eye, she could see herself sprinting across the lawn, the wind tickling her skin and her hair flying wildly around her face – not that she was allowed to wear her hair down…
It was time. Luckily, everything was going to plan.
Hannah gave the lounge room another glance over her shoulder. There was no movement, and no sound except for the hum of the aircon pumping stale, artificial air. She opened the door. The rush of air was sweet and cool, exactly how she’d imagined. Hannah allowed herself a small smile. She grabbed the backpack and stepped outside, pulling the door shut.
Skirting the edge of the house, Hannah followed the stone pathway towards the far side of the yard. The horses had gathered by the large oak tree shading the gazebo. They whinnied as they saw her approach.
*
Bang!
Hannah froze. A gust of wind had slammed the back door open.
‘Hannah?’ Reggie’s voice called out from inside.
She could hear that he was worried; worried but not angry – yet.
‘Hannah, where are you?’
She wasn’t ready! Her hands fumbled with the bag of supplies. Half of its contents were strewn haphazardly across the gazebo’s picnic table as she’d dug through the bag to get to the shoes at the bottom. She’d barely had time to put them both on. Hannah cursed at herself for not doing so inside the house, she would have had more time out here if she had. Now it was too late! He was going to find her and know what she was doing. She could hear his feet thudding against the ground as he rapidly approached.
Stupid Hannah, you could have done better!
Stupid! Stupid!
Reggie appeared at the entrance. His face red. His breathing ragged. He. Was. Furious.
Hannah instantly dropped to her knees, begging, ‘Oh Reggie, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! P-p-please don’t be mad at me. Please!’ Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed into her hands.
Reggie stepped forward menacingly, his hand already raised – but as he got closer, he noticed the table. Instead of striking, Reggie knelt in front of Hannah, gently removing her hands from her face.
‘I’m not mad, Hannah.’
‘Y-you’re not?’ Hannah chanced looking into Reggie’s eyes, noted they’d lost that maniacal edge.
‘I’m just glad that you’re still here,’ he whispered. ‘I thought you’d left me.’
Reggie put his hand around Hannah’s waist and helped her to stand. He tried to lead her away, but Hannah’s feet refused. She was looking at the party supplies still on the table; decorations and party hats made from old newspapers, and for his present, a sketch of the two of them together. She’d gone through a lot of effort to do this for Reggie, but now all of it was about to be left outside and go to waste.
Reggie followed her gaze and relented, ‘Alright, we can celebrate my birthday out here later. The fresh air might do us all some good.’
Hannah felt a weight lift. Reggie wasn’t mad at her! This was exactly what she wanted. She just wanted him to be happy.
‘I’d like that.’
‘My sister is coming for dinner tonight,’ Reggie reminded Hannah as he admired her drawing and absently brushed his hand over the swell of her stomach. ‘You’ll need to start cooking soon. And cleaning.’ He paused, smiling as he looked at the table again. “And setting up your decorations. There’s a lot that needs to be done.”
*
It was sweltering in the kitchen. The oven and stove top were both laden with food in various stages of cooking while the unfinished cake was still cooling, protected from the heat in the fridge.
Hannah sat at the island bench, picking at the sleeve of her grey cardigan, but she didn’t dare to take it off. Reggie’s sister had come over earlier than expected, sending Hannah into a panic and fleeing to her bedroom to get changed. It wouldn’t do for Lauren to see the angry purple bruising scattering Hannah’s arms and start asking all sorts of uncomfortable questions.
But now, none of the dishes were ready, and Lauren refused to let Hannah do anything more, citing that Hannah was ‘about to pop’ and cheekily brandishing her fist at Reggie who refused to help on principle. Lauren had given him a stern reaming when she saw Hannah struggling to bend over to put the roast in the oven, but relented because Hannah insisted; it was Reggie’s birthday, after all.
‘I still can’t believe it’s taken us so long to meet,’ Lauren sighed as she hand-mixed the icing. ‘Reg kept saying it wasn’t a good time.’
Hannah smiled nervously, trying to think of an excuse.
However, Reggie beat her to it. ‘You can’t hate me for wanting her all to myself, Lauren!’ he laughed. ‘I mean, look at her. You can’t blame me for that.’
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I shout out to her as she dances her way across the asphalt of the road beneath her feet, her blonde hair tumbling down her back instead of in the tight bun she usually wears on top of her head. I don’t actually believe that she is going to get herself killed by oncoming traffic, considering the last car we saw pass us in either direction was about an hour ago and we were driving at the time. We have stopped now, on this journey to only Stella knows where.
“Nathanial James, you have no sense of adventure.” She says with a laugh, rolling her eyes at me.
We have pulled over so many times whenever she has seen a rolling field in front of us, so she can dance or pretend she is a nymph fairy or some shit. I swear that she looks like a completely different person when she’s dancing. She’s no longer my best friend, just some girl who has let her body be possessed by some spirit or another being. She still looks like her and sounds like her and if I could reach out and touch her hand with mine, she would still feel like my life-long best friend. Except now she has glided across to the other side of the road and all I can see is the bottom of her white dress turning red from the earth underneath her bare feet.
Out here, along the Nullarbor, the terrain is red and dusty and my clothes are sticking to my skin with sweat despite the temperature dropping more than a degree with every passing minute. The aircon in my car has no effect in this type of heat, especially when it has to keep two passengers cooler than the temperature outside of the car. As I look at the sleek white body of my brand new car, I wish I’d have chosen a different colour. My baby doesn’t look so brand new anymore. And the almost extra thousand k’s I’ve added to her in the past fifteen hours haven’t helped. I want to turn around and go home. I don’t know what we’re even doing out here! Travelling along the Eyre highway in Western Australia, twelve hours from home on the longest straight road in the country.
Of course, I could ask Stella, since she was the one who crawled into my bedroom window at four am and told me she had to; “get out of town now.” I thought we were going to head south to Bunbury for a couple hours getaway. Boy was I wrong. It’s getting late as the sun starts to greet the horizon. There is probably a little over an hour until it disappears completely and we lose the light. There are no lights along the road, and I have no idea what kind of wildlife we are going to encounter out here once it gets dark. Cocklebiddy is only an hour away, home is twelve hours. Maybe I should have just talked to Stella when she climbed through my window, instead of indulging her spontaneous road trip across the freaking state. It’s my own fault we are here; I’ve never been able to say no to her. Being in love with your best friend kind of sucks balls when she doesn’t reciprocate your feelings at all.
I want to ask her what made her crawl through my bedroom window and request that I drive out of town with her riding shotgun to places unknown. I wish I had asked her why? What’s wrong? Begged her to talk to me. Although, this is Stella. When she doesn’t want to talk, she shuts down and pretends that everything is okay, when I know very well that it’s not. Something has happened to her to make her want to escape, run, leave everything behind her. And until she’s ready to talk, there isn’t anything I can do but wait.
The song changes on my car speakers and I’m still watching Stella dance. You’d think that after nineteen years of being best friends, and eighteen years watching her dance, attending every recital and talking about her routines constantly, I’d have learned the different moves and the names of them, but I guess she still asks me why I have to bowl an extra ball in my over when the umpire sticks his arms out and the team batting gets an extra run added to their score. The thought makes me chuckle and she stops dancing to look at me, hands on her hips. She’s suddenly defensive, as if my chuckle was aimed at her and the moves she was making on the desert soil.
“What are you laughing at?” she cries, glaring at me in only true Stella fashion. Her perfect bow shaped lips are now in a thin straight line and the line between her brows indents. She’s going to crack it any minute if I don’t defuse the situation that has suddenly taken a weird turn all because I chuckled at a memory. I calculate my options quickly in my head, while staring at her angry face growing slightly redder by the second. I could lie, I could tell her I was laughing at the thought of her dancing to a song she despises, or I could tell her the truth.
I opt for the truth, only because she will know I’m lying.
“Ugh, you’re still holding my lack of cricket knowledge against me?” she huffs after I tell her why I was laughing. I can’t help the huge grin that takes over my face. She is so cute when she gets annoyed. Well, technically in my eyes, she’s always cute and beautiful and gorgeous and fabulous and every other describing word that comes with those. I love her and I wish that I could tell her. I wish that she would feel the same and she’d dance into my arms, and I’d swing her around and I would never again let the worries of the world get to her. Whatever she’s dealing with, I wish she’d tell me so I could fix it for her.
“Not against you, never!” I exclaim and she actually cracks a smile for the first time since we hit the road. It doesn’t seem that the further we get away from Perth, that the weight of whatever is bothering her is lifting from her shoulders at all. Whatever it is that she’s wrestling with, she’s using this trip to push it aside and pretend it isn’t happening. “You ready to hit the road? Cocklebiddy is only an hour away. We can get a room in the roadhouse for the night.”
Her posture stiffens and I know that I’ve hit a nerve. She’s expecting me to push her into talking. I want to, and the longer it takes for her to tell me, is only causing me to get more frustrated by the minute. This is just her way of dealing and I have to suck it up and push my shit aside because this isn’t about me. It’s about her. She reaches up and pushes her blonde hair off her shoulders. She bends over and pulls it all up into a messy bun on the top of her head. “I was kind of hoping we’d just keep driving,” she eventually says, and I have to hold onto my frustration that has started boiling in my gut.
Keep driving? It’s nearing seven pm. The sun is about to set, and I have been up since four am. She has slept in the passenger seat and I have driven all of the nearly thousand kilometers of this journey.
I gather some composure while the frustration boils inside me and say, “I guess you can drive for a while.” I watch her eyes widen in delight, but I let a smirk slip. “But that means I get to choose what we listen to. You made the rules when I got this car.” I’m already planning the playlist we’ll listen to on the drive, the songs I can choose to annoy her the most. The songs I can play to get her to talk, to tell me what is going on inside her head.
The uncertainty flashes across her face and I do my best to cling to what little composure I have managed to maintain. As much as I love this girl, she sure knows how to try my patience. I watch her face carefully, wondering if I can figure out what is going on inside her head. It is the first time I have truly looked at her face since we got on the road. There is a sadness etched into her eyes that I cannot for the life of me figure out.
Her silence rings in the air around us. Not a breath of wind surrounds us, no animals or cars to break the silence. Only the music playing from my car stereo. So, I break it for her, take the decision out of her hands.
“I’ll drive us to Cocklebiddy. I’ll get us a room for the night and tomorrow morning, when we wake up-”
“Nate, please don’t…” she trails off after interrupting me. I hold up my hand stopping her from continuing her sentence, even though I’m not sure what else she was going to say.
“When we wake up, we’ll get breakfast and either you tell me what’s going on and why we are on this road trip, or we get back in my car and I drive us back home. I will give you the night, Tells, one night and then you need to decide if you want to tell me what’s going on, or if it’s best you leave me out of it for the time being.” I look at her as I speak, weighing my words as I voice them. This girl with her huge heart and bright, tormented eyes. I love her, but I think I deserve to know what is going on, what made her climb through my bedroom window at four am and beg me to get her out of town.
My frustration has gotten the better of me. I have forced her hand and I wish I hadn’t but I need to know what is going on. I can’t help her if she doesn’t tell me. I can’t begin to make things better without knowing what is torturing her mind.
Her shoulders slump forward as she curls in on herself. Her knees buckle under her, and she starts to fall to the gravel road beneath our feet. My heart slams in my chest as I stagger towards her, holding her against me, before her knees hit the ground. She cries into my chest, clinging to me as though her life depends on it. As though if she doesn’t hold on, one of us will float away and disappear forever.
I hold her, gently stroking her back as I wait for her to tell me what happened. I watch as the sun sets behind the horizon and the day shifts to night. The wilderness comes to life as the sky starts to shift from bright yellow and orange to a dull pink.
A car eventually drives past us as we sit on the side of the road, clinging to each other as if our lives depended on it. They pull over and ask if we are okay and I wave them away. We are fine. At least, I think we are. Stella’s tears have ceased and for a minute I think she’s fallen asleep, until she pulls her head back and looks at me.
“Poppy passed away yesterday morning,” she whispers, as more tears leak out of her eyes and down her cheeks. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I can’t be at home! I can’t watch my mum cry anymore. I couldn’t sleep and I just knew the only way to make me okay again, at least for a minute, was to get out of town with you. You always make everything better.”
My heart breaks in my chest and I have no words to comfort her other than saying sorry over and over again. So, I pull her closer, let her press her face into my chest as she starts sobbing again. I hold her, letting her tears soak into my shirt. I don’t let her go and I let the night fall upon us. She needs to escape, and she needs me with her. She doesn’t want to be at home. She needs this. So, I will stay here with her for as long as it takes. We’ll keep heading east until she’s ready. Or at least until we have no other choice but to head back home and face reality.
The white Holden Kingswood geared down sharply and pulled off the highway onto a crunching dirt road. The girl squirmed sideways on the slippery vinyl seat and rested her cheek against the car window frame. The highway embankment grew above her as the rutted road bounced the car past dusty paddocks, until sharp metallic vibrations from the cattle grid punctuated the end of the outside world. Pine trees stood sentry along the river-sand driveway and the girl craned her neck to watch as they marched by. In front, the girl’s mother cooed as she lifted the baby to her shoulder; the infant grizzled, and his flushed face puckered at the girl. She looked back out at the passing world.
Heat-drunk crickets droned as the car lazily approached the large turning circle. Drowsing cows stood under corrugated shelter, then oil-stained machinery sheds passed by. Black-and-white Lassie, taut on her chain, barked the arrival of the family. Still turning; the girl watched the curious resident magpies perched high above the disused tennis court and large kitchen gardens. Finally, the car stopped outside the old sandstone buildings veiled in ivy and jasmine. Standing by the yard gate, the girl’s grandparents waited, smiling.
*
The heat from the wood-burner stove made the air in the kitchen so dense that the girl didn’t know where she ended and the air began. Ducking under the generations-polished kitchen table, she could see the tree-stump circle of legs. Her parents and grandparents were tickling the baby, making him laugh. She wrinkled her nose at the tell-tale smell of a dirty nappy. Sweaty, wrinkly, stinky. She had lost interest in him quickly. All anyone wanted to talk about was him and how she was now a ‘big sister’.
The girl crept out from under the table and into the hallway. Everyone used the back door to her right, but to the left was the formal hallway that led to a large arched entrance. The front door was enormous – timber painted glossy white, punctuated with a solid black iron latch and skeleton key. This door was never used, never opened. The girl slipped out of her sandals and tip-toed across the cool, polished timber floors in her bare feet. She reached out and pressed her hands, and then her face, against the solemn door.
Every time the girl visited, she would cup her hands around the enormous key and try to make it turn. She never could. But today, while her family was searching through bags for fresh nappies and baby powder, she held her breath, braced her hands, and felt the key shift to the left. She stopped. Hesitantly, she looked over her shoulder, in case someone had been watching. Her excitement was smothered by her fear of getting caught.
*
The midday heat had sent the family in search of relief. The girl sidled up to her mother on the shaded verandah outside the dining room. Her mother was leant back in the wooden deck chair, with her eyes closed. Draped across her mother’s chest, the baby was making rhythmic twitches under a shawl. The girl pressed up against her mother, wanting to feel the comfort her brother was sharing.
Her mother startled. ‘Oh Gemma. It’s too hot. You’ll get us all sweaty.’ Her mother lightly pushed Gemma away.
Gemma felt her bottom lip start to quiver and the sob beginning deep in her chest, but she forced it down. Big girls don’t cry. And if her father heard her… well, she didn’t want something to cry about.
Gemma wandered past the open French doors where her grandparents sat inside reading sections of the newspaper and drinking tea. She hopped, one foot, then the other, down the wooden steps. From there, she could follow the path to the turning circle and the paddocks beyond, but today she walked to her right, towards the ivy-covered sandstone stables and derelict servant quarters. They loomed tall over the girl. She knew she wasn’t supposed to go inside them, but they were full of old furniture and paintings — treasures for the girl’s imaginative adventures to faraway places. Her missions into the old buildings were never long; there was something about the closed-in musty smell that made her feel nervous, as though she might be locked inside and never able to get out.
Today, Gemma walked along the outside walls of the old stables, trailing her hand along the sandstone blocks. The walls were cool and left a coarse dusting on her fingers. Her grandmother said the blocks had been hand-cut by convicts, pointing to the chisel marks left in the stone. Gemma knew the stables had been built a long, long time ago. Resting her hand over one of the convict marks, she felt the stone warm.
As Gemma turned back towards the house, a juvenile magpie ran towards her and rolled onto its back. Swooping down, another joined and tackled its sibling. The magpie-children tumbled and wrestled in front of her. Their grey unkempt feathers and rough play made the girl laugh.
*
Gemma’s grandmother dried and stacked dinner plates while her mother darned a work-shirt at the kitchen table. In the living room, her father and grandfather sat watching the ABC News on the black and white television, surrounded by lazy wafts of cigarette smoke. Gemma knew ‘the News’ was very important, and she needed to keep quiet. Each day her father took notes of where there would be petrol available. Odds and Evens. Their numberplate was Odds. He had a little notebook in the glove box of the car, and he would lick the tip of the sharpened pencil and precisely write down the mileage after every trip he took.
Gemma quietly made her way out of the kitchen. She picked up her mother’s straw sunhat from the hatstand and put it on. In the tall mirror she spread her arms and spun like a ballerina. Blue and grey light from the television in the living room flickered onto the gloomy hallway floor as Gemma once again was drawn to the large front door. She cupped the key in her hands. It rotated to the left, stiffly, and she felt it catch. With more effort she pushed it past the hesitation and felt the deadbolt pull back. Her heart raced as she put her hands on the heavy steel latch above the lock and pushed up. Holding her breath, she pulled tentatively on the door. It shifted. With a sudden jerk it swung towards her, and the girl was able to peer into the strong daylight and step outside.
The grass was hot under her bare feet. Gemma ran along the rows of vegetables, through the gap past the tennis court, and down stone-carved steps to the garden on the tier below. The lawn was softer here, and mossy under the shaded weeping willow trees. Her mother’s sun hat blew off, but the girl caught it and put it back on. She skipped down to the bridge crossing the sluggish creek. The bridge was simply built, solid railway sleepers spanned lengthways. Pulling both sides of the hat over her ears, the girl marched, blinkered, down the centre of the bridge, avoiding the unguarded edges. She took a relieved step onto the sun-speckled dirt path.
Heading left, Gemma followed the creek past her grandmother’s floral garden beds and carefully crawled under the barbed wire strands into the paddocks. The creek widened here and there was a sandy beach area where she had watched her grandfather making damper. He had shown her the smooth rock with grooves near the creek bank. ‘Grinding grooves made by the Aboriginals,’ he’d said. ‘Thousands of years of sharpening their tools and spears it took for them to be like this.’ Gemma sat beside the rock now, stroking the silky stone. She picked up a piece of sharpened flint on the ground. She ran her thumb along the edge, like her grandfather had done over his own work-calloused hand. It cut, and a drop of blood welled. Gemma sucked the blood off her thumb. She had tried to ask her grandmother about where the Aboriginals were now, but something about the way her grandmother had frowned made the girl not want to ask again.
‘Gemma! What are you doing out here? Get inside right now, young lady!’ Gemma’s father reached down and grabbed her arm, wrenching her back towards the house. ‘How many times do you have to be told not to wander off?’ Gemma nodded as she tripped along, trying to keep up with her father’s pace.
*
Gemma lay on the over-sized bed with her face hot and salty. She could still feel the sting on the back of her thighs. She hadn’t meant to be naughty. Worse than the smacks though, was the look of disappointment in her mother’s eyes.
The rain started with large splats on the dusty ground, creating an arrhythmic beat on the tin roof. Gemma listened, trying to anticipate the next ‘donk’, to constrain the beat into some sort of regularity, but it was never quite when she expected. Soon the raindrops quickened into a noisy thrum. Gemma rolled over on the large bed and tried to look out her window. Everything blurred and rolls of thunder drowned out the rain. Gemma rested her head against window, and through the small gap she felt the damp breeze make its way into the room, the scent of rain on baked dirt mingling with the metallic tang of the storm. The sheer curtains cloaked the girl as she dozed into asleep.
*
Gemma woke to the ink-wash light before dawn. She was in her bed and under covers, and she guessed her mother had come in during the night to tuck her in. The room was peaceful as she wriggled down under the covers a little more, trying to tempt back sleep. Even when she squeezed her eyelids shut, they kept popping open.
Gemma slipped out of bed. Her grandfather would be out checking the cattle, but the house was dark and still. Quietly opening the door, she walked down the carpeted corridor towards the kitchen. The back door was open, making the most of the pre-dawn breeze. Beyond the back door, the lawn glistened with the moisture from the storm the night before. Some of the magpies already stalked through the blades, lifting their feet high as though they didn’t want to get their skirted knees damp. They looked one-eyed at the ground for tasty worms that had surfaced. Darting thrusts of their beaks sampled the treats. The magpies warbled their fortune to their family.
Gemma suddenly recalled the sting of the previous night. Oh no! Her mother’s hat! It was still by the creek and would be ruined! Heart-racing, the girl looked back into the shadowed corridor, wondering for a moment if she should tell her mother. But instead, she stepped out and quietly closed the screen door behind her.
Running by the darkened windows of the kitchen, Gemma raced towards the creek. The grass was wet underfoot today, but she still preferred to run without shoes. She heard the creek before she saw it. Yesterday, it had been a lazy trickle, easy to dip into and see the tadpoles. Today, it was brown and rushing, pushing hard against the banks at the bottom of the lawned embankment. Without breaking stride, she took a jump off the lawn onto the bridge. Her heart leapt as her foot slipped out from under her and she felt herself sliding forward and falling backwards.
*
Gemma could taste the muddy water in her mouth and nose. She felt herself tumbling and tried to cry out, but water filled her mouth. She tried to grasp something solid, but she was dragged away any time she felt any sense of direction. She wanted to cry, but her breath kept being knocked out of her, and she couldn’t get a deep enough gasp to make a sound. She felt a sharp pain as her arm knocked hard against a rock, while the turbulent water tussled over her small body.
Something grabbed at her shoulder. A shout? A scream! Talons dug into her skin, pulling her upwards. Her face was above water, and she desperately gulped in air. Flapping black-feathered wings frantically beat against her face. She felt a searing pain, and then lightness.
She was playing on the trampoline at the swimming pool. Chlorine-dried skin and bouncing high, so high. Her mother’s swollen belly and glowing laughter watched from below, shaded under the soft-brimmed hat. The momentary blissful weightlessness at the top of the jump suspended the girl, and she knew she was going to fall again.
Only she didn’t fall. She reached out her arms, and with a great flap, propelled herself higher into the sky. Her legs curled under her, and her chest swelled as she pushed up again, with another forceful flap of her wings.
*
The grey magpie watched from the trees, looking down at her father shaking the small limp body lying on the embankment. Her mother stood with her arms wrapped tightly across her stomach, face contorted.
‘Gemma! Gemma! Cough it up. Bloody hell, she’s okay!’ The small girl coughed and gingerly stood up as the father hugged her. ‘We keep telling you! Stop wandering! Jesus. That was close.’ The man hugged the small girl again.
The girl’s mother pushed the wet hair out of the girl’s eyes. ‘Come inside. We’ll get you cleaned up.’
The man, woman and wordless child walked towards the kitchen path. The girl looked up at the juvenile magpie perched over the gardens and felt a stony-cold weight in the pit of her stomach. With every moment, her light, her joy, her happiest dreams, were drifting away from her, lost, leaving only cottonwool sadness stuffed in her aching throat.
Stretching out her long-feathered wings to full length, the grey magpie launched from the high branch to join the magpie family singing in chorus on the paddock gate, celebrating the dawning sun. She tilted her beaked head sideways at her new siblings, and throwing her head back, opened her throat to release her joyful, sweet, warbling song.
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I was born in the early morning on a cold day, just as the first faint rays of the rising sun began to pass through the gaps of the stable door. I stood quivering on a dense bed of wood shavings, attempting to walk despite only being minutes old. My mother was a bay thoroughbred, just like myself, but what I most remember about her was the distant look in her eyes. She seemed to care very much about me and was often quite overprotective, especially when there were humans nearby. But there was also a deep suffering she tried to conceal, of which I didn’t really think much of as a little foal. Looking back, however, I now understand why.
After a few peaceful months spent with my mother out in a paddock, things started to change. I was less than a year old when I was separated from her and put into a stable of my own. I was incredibly scared and missed her greatly. Those final memories of her, pacing the paddock fence and screaming out to me as I was led away, would never leave me. But very soon even more changes began to happen. The humans who worked at the stables started forcing a metal stick into my mouth and strapping a strange, uncomfortable object onto my back. I resisted many of the humans’ initial attempts, but after they violently expressed their impatience at my disobedience, I was left with no other choice but to submit. It was not because I gave up, but because I was scared of what would happen if I continued fighting back.
It was not long before a rider was put on my back. I was forced to carry them, along with the vile metal stick pulling on my mouth and the object secured tightly around my torso. It was a horrible experience. They kicked, whipped, and shouted at me to move forward when all I wanted to do was get them off. And I did try… but like when I had first been introduced to the horrid, restricting things I was now forced to wear, I was left with no choice but to submit. And from there, things only got worse.
I was ridden along with numerous other horses up and down a long sandy track, and I witnessed their equally bad treatment. We were made to gallop again and again for ages, and if any of us refused to obey any longer, we were whipped and shouted at. I saw some terrible things during those times. It made me worry about what would become of us all in the end.
One day I was loaded into a horse trailer and taken somewhere many hours away, along with several other horses. We were driven to a crowded, noisy place full of humans, where hundreds of other horses were being unloaded from large horse trailers and led into temporary stalls. I was left to stand in one of these stalls for what seemed like ages, until I was hastily tacked up and taken to be ridden around a small track. I was very nervous and could sense that many others around me were, too. Afterwards, I was led onto a much larger track, where many other horses were also being led around. I was so frightened at this point and could feel my heart bounding. I almost couldn’t move. The loud, echoing voices of some of the humans, the massive crowd, the cries of other nervous horses… It was all too much.
Out on the big grass track, I was squashed into a tiny padded box, which made up a line of many others that horses were being shoved into. Suddenly a rider appeared and leapt onto my back, which caused me to panic even more. I tried to jump out of the tight space, but could not get my legs over the barrier. I was stuck, and I felt like I was about to collapse.
The booming voice that seemed to come from the air reached a deafening volume, and then it happened… Suddenly the gates of the boxes were flung open and the other horses and I were faced with a long stretch of green grass before us. We bolted. We ran as fast as we could, not because we wanted to, but because fear drove us. After all, it is our natural extinct to flee when we are scared, and humans had exploited this to create a spectacle that they seemed to be enjoying. But for us horses, it was traumatic and deadly.
I ran, following the other horses, each of us equally blinded by our fear. I could hear the sounds of rubber cracking on the skin of the other horses around me, and I began to throw my head up in protest. That was when the whipping started for me, and when the rider on my back began to shout and repeatedly strike my own shoulder. I sprinted faster, the fear increasingly growing. It was not much further before all the riders suddenly stopped shouting and whipping, and they allowed us to slow our paces. As I was able to glance around myself again, I began to notice how terrible all the other horses looked. The whites of their eyes flickered, their mouths fought against the harsh metal, and sweat seemed to pour off their coats. Some even limped. It was a horrible sight, and I was sure I looked equally as beaten.
After we were all taken off the track, I was roughly sprayed with some icy water and led back to my stall. However, on the way there, I noticed a few of the horses from the race before mine… except now they were lying on the ground, dead. A human in a white coat stood over the bodies, appearing to be in discussion with a few other people.
That night, after being transported back from the racecourse, I had an awful dream.
I had somehow been set free and was walking towards a field shielded by dense hedges. I continued approaching with curiosity until I was right by the edge. Through a gap I could see something was very strange about this field, so I entered to investigate. It was then that I realised I was suddenly surrounded by piles of horse bones strewn across the field, rotting into the muddy soil beneath my hooves. As I tried to escape, I tripped over one of these carcasses and collapsed onto the ground. I panicked—I could not die here!—but from this lower perspective I noticed something that I hadn’t realised before… These bones were not fully grown, and the teeth on the skulls were unworn and still small… I realised that I was surrounded by the skeletal remains of what were once healthy, young horses.
At that moment I woke up, struggling to breathe through the panic. Had this merely been a dream, or was it in fact reality? I paced along the walls of my stable for the rest of the night, desperate to leave this terrible world behind.
The next day a human in a white coat came to visit and inspected my condition. I had been looked over by someone like this yesterday at the racecourse, so I was surprised to see another again today. She paid particular attention to my breathing and had an intense look of concentration on her face. After quite a while she finally turned and talked to the person who was holding me by a rope. He nodded in agreement before walking off. He soon returned with another man, one who seemed busy and didn’t look at me, and whom I remembered seeing at the races yesterday. The man also nodded his head at the vet and started making a phone call. All the humans then left me, and I resumed standing in the middle of the stall with my head hung low, still haunted by yesterday’s race and my dream.
The following morning, I was led into another truck, except this one was more run-down than the one I had been driven to the racecourse in, and a few other horses were also loaded up with me. We weren’t tied up this time, but instead stood closely together, bumping and staggering with the movements of the truck, and looking through the gaps in the panels with nervous eyes.
We soon arrived at another property, which had a large shed and some surrounding pens. I could smell the scent of blood before I saw the red-stained ground, and I could sense the danger before I came across the shiny metal cylinders. We were let out and herded into one of the small metal-fenced pens, and one by one, a horse was forced through and into an even smaller, tighter pen. A piercing shot would go off before the horse would rattle the fence as their legs gave way. One by one, each of us was reduced to only a couple. We protested and cried in fear, but we were beaten and eventually shoved into the constricting death-pen. Soon it would be my turn. I knew that rearing, kicking, and screaming at the killer had not worked for the horses before me, so I had to do something different, and do it now. I tried to get a run-up in the small, high-fenced pen, and jumped for my life. I leapt higher than I had ever done before and managed to clear the fence without clipping it. The slaughterer shouted and jumped the fence after me, aiming the shiny metal cylinder at me and firing repeatedly, but I kept running as fast as I could like the race all over again, only faster. Soon an electric gate lay in my way, the evil buzzing warning me of its additional dangers, but I took my chances and leapt over it, never looking back.
I ran, finding my way as I went and avoiding the unpredictable road. I didn’t stop until I was sure they’d never find me, in a quiet field shielded by dense vegetation. Except this one contained no skeletons, this one was safe.
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Preface
The following story originated from a series of short stories that I have told my Grandchildren over the years. ‘Tell us a Bert story, Grandma,’ they would command just before lights out. The older grandchild, Yasmin, was obsessed with Bert’s adventures and constantly reminded me of past events in Bert’s life, so I could not afford to get the details wrong. The younger grandchild needed more and more children for Bert and Gladys to worry over, hence the two sets of twins and the late comer, Brian. The version I have written here is the ‘true’ story, the one I thought the ‘grownups’ would appreciate rather than the little ones.
*
Gladys drove carefully to the local medical centre with Bert alongside her. She was always extra careful these days when she drove Bert to his various appointments as he was a little nervous. Gladys was never nervous but understood Bert’s reluctance to accept her driving ability as superior to his. He was once an expert driver—or so he said. Always courteous, patient and obeyed road rules to the letter.
Gladys could remember when they were first married, Bert did quite a bit of horn honking and fist shaking, but she didn’t remind him of this.
Goodness, how things have changed, Gladys thought. Bert was now a balding, somewhat overweight, seventy-year-old man. Gladys hadn’t changed much at all. She was still the vivacious, trim person of forty years ago—or so she imagined.
She was quite happy to drive Bert today—first to the optometrist, then to the hearing clinic. As she pulled into the car park, Gladys chose a space near the entrance to the centre, so Bert didn’t have far to walk. Lately his knee was giving him a bit of trouble.
As they sat together, waiting for his name to be called, Gladys remembered all the times Bert had waited with her when she was expecting the children. Yes, they were his children too, but husbands were different then. They’d drop you off at the clinic and come back later. Bert didn’t, though. He always wanted to be involved in any procedures and managed to be at all the births. Having a family meant a lot to Bert because he was an orphan.
Bert wasn’t really an orphan—it was just a series of unfortunate events that denied Bert a family like others. As it turned out, through much investigation, Bert wasn’t Bert but Brian. He discovered this when he was forty. Bert—or Brian—came to Australia from Ireland for a holiday with his family when he was a six-month-old baby.
*
The O’Flannigan family had only recently arrived in Brisbane from Ireland when they decided to take a day trip to the nearby seaside suburb of Cleveland and spend the day fishing on the pier. Mum, Dad and older brother and sister sat at one end of the pier with Bert in his pram at the far end—the shady quiet end—so he could sleep. Meanwhile, a very well-intentioned woman out for a stroll, discovered Bert soundly asleep.
‘Oh, deary me!’ she exclaimed to herself. ‘Someone has abandoned this little thing.’ She searched for a name or any means of identification and, finding none, decided to take the baby to the nearest police station. They’ll know what to do, she thought and, not thinking that the parents could be nearby, wheeled the baby to the station.
She was informed that everything would be done to find the parents, and seeing that the woman was a little distressed, the sympathetic policeman told her ‘don’t worry, we’ll find this little fellow’s family.’
Of course, when Bert’s family had enough of fishing and were feeling peckish and ready for lunch, they returned to where they left Bert to find nothing. No pram with sleeping baby—just nothing. Mum screamed at Dad, he screamed at the other children, and everyone panicked, running here and there in case the pram had rolled away. They stopped people on the street and asked ‘have you seen a baby in a pram?’ and tried to explain through their tears and panic about the fishing and why the baby was left in the shade—alone.
The family visited all the local shops and even knocked on some doors of the houses, but no-one had seen or heard a baby in a stroller. Finally, they went to the police. Not to the local police, but the one in the city near where they were staying.
‘Sorry, Mr and Mrs. O’Flannigan. We haven’t had any reports about any babies being handed in today. Was there any identification on him or the pram?’ asked the concerned officer at the city police station.
‘No, it was a hired stroller cause we’re visiting from Ireland, and we are due to fly back home tomorra, but how can we without our wee Brian?’ they explained, amid fresh tears and much sobbing.
Now, in those days, communication between police stations was not what it is today. Only a scratchy old telephone, which more often than not refused to keep a connection, sat on a dusty old desk. There were no mobiles, internet connections or other devices that would have enabled the station at Cleveland to be in touch with the one in Brisbane. Added to this, the O’Flannigan family omitted to inform the Brisbane police that the baby disappeared at Cleveland. What a tragic mix-up.
‘I’ll make out a report and let you know if anything turns up,’ replied the concerned city policeman. He was convinced someone had kidnapped the child, and very soon there would be a demand for money.
Unfortunately, no demand for money materialised, and after many months of waiting for news and searching extensively, the distraught O’Flannigan family returned to their home in Ireland without baby Brian and without an explanation for his disappearance.
The police officer at the Cleveland station near where the baby was found had accepted the abandonment theory, and eventually the authorities found a home with a very loving, caring family who agreed to look after him until his parent or parents could be found.
Needless to say, this never happened. Bert Smith—that’s what they named him, after his foster father—stayed with the foster parents until he was able to be adopted by them. Many years later, the truth was uncovered.
*
Bert had a relatively happy life. He was well fed, clothed, schooled and loved by his adoptive mum and dad. He didn’t know any other life.
He became an apprentice mechanic after leaving school. Bert showed himself to be an adept hand at anything mechanical. The boss expanded his car-service business, and Bert was his star employee although the wage he paid him didn’t reflect this.
Eventually, Bert saved enough money to buy an old bus that he worked on in spare time and weekends. The boss allowed him to park it at the back of the garage. Gladys remembered this old bus very well, for it was she who helped ready it for Bert in his new venture.
Gladys was a ‘Kiwi’, or a New Zealander, arriving ‘over the ditch’ for a working holiday. Nothing much was happening in her life in Wellington. She was considered quite attractive with long black curly hair, a trim figure and a cheerful nature. At twenty, Gladys was very confident and a good worker.
She found a job as bar helper at the local pub where she was staying. This gave her the opportunity to have a good look at the place and its inhabitants. There she met Bert who would come in after work on Fridays for a couple of beers.
Bert was a bit older than Gladys, in fact eight years older. You couldn’t describe Bert as handsome, yet he had a wonderful smile that made up for his lack of facial attributes. He didn’t seem to have a girlfriend or wife, but one never really knows. Bert was a little shy in those days and didn’t have much to say as Gladys poured him his beers. This lack of interest intrigued her as she had numerous invitations from other drinkers in the pub.
Eventually, Bert asked if she would like to share a meal with him, which turned out to be an enjoyable experience, and the next week, ‘Would you like to see a movie with me?’
Well, this went on for quite a while, and one night he nervously asked her to be his wife. Bert was a bit old fashioned, probably due to his aged parents who always made a point of doing and saying the right thing. Gladys really liked this element of Bert’s character; she thought it very endearing.
They planned to have a civil ceremony. Gladys would have liked her New Zealand family to attend, but it was not convenient as money was short, so they settled for a celebration with a couple of friends and a weekend at Byron Bay. Bert didn’t have any family now as both adoptive parents had died a few years earlier.
He always knew he was adopted and accepted the story about being abandoned although he felt there was a bit more to it. He was determined one day to investigate and find his birth parents, but this would have to wait for a while.
*
‘Mr Smith, Bert Smith,’ called the nurse at the optometrists. He limped into the surgery, and Gladys sighed back into reminiscing.
Bert seemed happy to be married, and it didn’t take very long before they were ‘on the production line’ as Bert termed it. ‘Twins,’ the doctor said.
‘Twins?’ Bert couldn’t believe his ears. He was so excited. Gladys was too but, being practical, thought of all the changes that would have to be made with twins.
First there was the house. ‘Not big enough, Bert,’ Gladys complained. Fortunately, Bert was working for himself, driving the bus they had renovated, and had just landed a job with the local school doing the Wednesday excursions. He always wanted to be the school bus driver, and before too long Bert added ‘School Bus Driver’ to his list of occupations.
They managed very well on this income, and Gladys was a great saver. She was exceptionally thrifty, and this helped their income, along with her homemade jams, pickles and delicious cakes that filled her stall at the local Sunday market. Gladys was an excellent cook. Had she wanted, a career as a chef would not have been out of the question. Pies, pastries, cakes and biscuits were her specialty, and most likely the reason for Bert’s chubbiness.
The town itself was quite small, just a pub, a small family store, a service station, a bank and a school. The facilities in the town were used by many in the outlying districts, and a steady stream of people hopped on and off Bert’s bus at regular intervals throughout the day.
There was Mrs McGillicuddy who made her own hats out of whatever she could find. Bert was sure the latest creation adorning her lush red hair, contained dead birds and snake skins although he may have been exaggerating.
Another of his favourite passengers was Florence Flibbertigibbet—probably not her real name, just one Bert made up. Florence just couldn’t sit still, always changing seats and walking up and down the aisle ignoring the sign that read, ‘Please remain seated when bus is in motion’. She always had a bit of gossip, and Bert loved the tales and rumours that Florence related. Bert also loved his job and best of all socialising with his passengers.
Gladys’s reminiscing was interrupted by Bert emerging from the optometrist, clutching a script for his new glasses. ‘Next stop Glad,’ he cheerily said. The hearing centre was right next door, so they found a comfortable seat in the waiting room until Bert was called for his hearing test, and Gladys could resume her thoughts from the past.
She seemed to do this frequently of late. Life was a little boring for Gladys without the chaos of raising five children. Yes, five children. Two sets of twins fairly close together too, and then little Brian. She wondered how this could have happened. Of course, she knew how it happened, but now they were all gone from home: a couple living in Sydney, the older twins gone to Tasmania, and little Brian in Ireland, staying with his old auntie and younger cousins.
Gladys had never been to Ireland though Bert had. When he discovered the story behind his ‘abandonment’, Bert set off to meet his older brother and sister, Frank and Bridget, leaving Gladys at home. He trusted Gladys completely in all things and knew she would cope well without him. He hoped she would not be too lonely and would find something to occupy her other than the children. Gladys did!
Her mind travelled back to that time almost twenty years ago when Bert flew to Ireland. Gladys thought about all this while waiting for Bert at the hearing clinic. She looked at her watch hoping he wouldn’t be too much longer. She was always a little impatient, and sometimes her impatience had consequences. Like the time one of the twins was left on the jetty as they hurried to sail home before the storm broke. With this, Gladys was reminded of her boat with mixed feelings. How she loved that little boat, but what a predicament it caused.
At that point, Bert returned to his seat and whispered. ‘I have to wait for a while, Glad, to see if any adjustment is needed with the new hearing aids.’
‘Why are you whispering, Bert?’
‘Cause everything sounds so loud,’ he answered.
They sat in silence for a while waiting for the specialist to call Bert back to the studio.
‘Won’t be long now,’ Bert said as the hearing assistant beckoned to him.
Gladys resumed her trip down memory lane. It was so long ago, but she remembered as though it was yesterday.
As an adventurous person, Gladys convinced Bert that they should buy a boat. She really missed her sailing days in New Zealand.
‘A boat!’ he exploded. ‘What do we want a boat for?’
‘Oh Bert, it would be fun. We could have weekends on it, and the children would love it.’
‘I don’t know anything about boats, Glad.’
‘But I do Bert,’ she retorted. ‘Don’t forget I come from a boating family. We always had a little boat back in Wellington. I know how to handle a boat.’
‘What about the cost?’ Bert was beginning to get a little worried. He could see that Gladys was serious and a bit steamed up.
So, Gladys explained how they could afford a boat and had seen the exact one in the paper recently. The owner was moving overseas. He needed a quick sale.
That little boat was everything to Gladys. It seemed to give her a new lease on life. She painted it, refurbished the cabins, updated the tiny galley, made curtains in her favourite colour purple and generally did it over in a ‘Gladys’ style.
They spent weekends cruising the water ways nearby, and Bert came to actually enjoy himself as long as they didn’t go out in the rough ocean.
*
It was at this time that Bert decided to travel to Ireland to meet his family. His ancestral searches had paid off. He now knew his true identity so wanted to meet his brother and sister.
As Gladys and the twins waved goodbye to Bert at the Bus terminal, she knew she would miss him and felt a little resentful at being left at home. She also knew there was no reason to feel lonely. Gladys had a great assortment of friends, and one in particular was extra special. He loved sailing, enjoyed playing with the children and complimented her on her cooking that he devoured with relish. He also enjoyed the flirtatious times they had together.
When Bert arrived in Ireland, it was a happy reunion and seemed to bring some closure to Bert’s unsettled feelings about his past. He felt quite at home in the small village outside the town of Urney in Northern Ireland. His birth parents had long since departed from life, and his brother and sister were married and had lots of children—some still at home. When his Irish family explained how they tried to find him and how devastated they all were at leaving him behind in Australia, Bert understood and no longer bore any resentment towards them. After a two-week visit, he journeyed back to Gladys and the children with a much lighter heart. He hoped one day he and Gladys could holiday together in Ireland.
*
Bert appeared suddenly out of a small cubicle. ‘All finished here Glad. We can get home for a cuppa, and I can watch my favourite show on the telly.’
Dear old Bert, thought Gladys. How could I ever have tried to deceive him.
Back in the car, they chatted away like two lovebirds—Bert relating all the details of his visit to the optometrist and the outcome of the hearing tests, Gladys asking a hundred questions. She loved details. That night after dinner, Gladys’s thoughts returned to ‘the event’. It was all Bert’s fault, of course. He should never have gone off by himself and left her at home. She remembered thinking I have no Bert to cook for now that he’s away. I know, I’ll ask Clive over for dinner.
Clive lived four houses up the road. He had recently become widowed. Gladys sensed he needed some care, companionship and home cooked meals. When she told the children, ‘Clive’s coming for dinner,’ they were very excited too.
‘Oh goody,’ the two older ones said, and the younger ones demanded he bring Rosie, his dog.
During the next two weeks, Clive came regularly for a meal, and once when the children were at school Gladys invited Clive for a tour in her boat around the nearby waterways.
‘Would you like to venture further, Gladys? How about the ocean?’ encouraged Clive.
Gladys was excited to get out of the calmness of the backwater and into the open sea where she could show her skills to Clive. They had a wonderful morning together. It was such fun. Gladys found herself looking forward to their boating excursions each time they met. She knew that Bert would not approve, especially on occasions when the children went with them. Bert wouldn’t understand how exciting it was for her. I know this will have to come to an end soon, she reminded herself. Just one more trip, she thought vowing not to tell Bert as it would upset him. Bert was due home early Tuesday, so Monday morning after the children were safely packed off to school Gladys and Clive sailed off in her little purple boat for one final boat ride.
The weather bureau gave the all clear for good boating weather, but just as they motored over the bar, the weather changed suddenly. Strong winds and rough seas engulfed the little boat. It really wasn’t made for this type of ocean sailing. Next thing, Clive, who was hanging on to the steering wheel trying to guide the boat back over the bar and into calmer waters, was tossed overboard. Gladys, always alert, threw him a life belt and a rope.
‘Hang on Clive!’ she implored. Clive clung onto his rope until help arrived. Gladys, using her boating experience, managed to sail the boat to where Clive could be plucked from the ocean up into the sea rescue helicopter and delivered safely to the nearby hospital.
Clive couldn’t swim! Gladys was astounded. He was lucky to be alive and unharmed except for a broken arm.
Gladys was consumed with guilt. Bert arrived home the next day and couldn’t wait to tell Gladys all his news. He didn’t seem to notice she was quieter than usual and not her cheery self. Gladys knew she had to tell Bert about her boating escapades. She knew she would have to confess about the children going too and about Clive nearly losing his life.
That night, when the children were tucked up in bed after the excitement of having Dad home and opening the gifts he brought them, Gladys decided to confess.
‘Bert dear,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I’ve got something very important to tell you.’
‘Yes Glad?’ said Bert sitting up wonderingly. ‘I’m all ears.’
So tearfully, Gladys went over the events of the last two weeks, hoping that Bert would understand and not think too harshly of her. Bert being Bert, did forgive her although he most likely was shocked that Gladys was so irresponsible in letting the children go and not checking whether Clive could swim.
‘Give me another of your delicious cakes Glad, and we won’t mention the boat again,’ was all he said.
‘Oh, I do love you, Bert,’ said Gladys, vowing to sell the boat and devote more time to him.
Now, sitting on their old comfortable couch with her old comfortable Bert, it seemed such a long time ago. Gladys got on with her life, loving and caring for Bert and their children, and if you wander down to the pier, you will still see Gladys at the helm of her little purple boat that Bert—with some encouragement from Gladys—insisted they keep.
You may also notice on a very calm day, Bert at the wheel, looking very smart in his new captain’s cap.
A storm was coming. Rick feared storms. They were violent and never left things the same. The sheer, grey wall crept across the river flat paddock. Rick could feel the wind gusts from it on his face. The air brought a rich, earthy smell as fat, heavy raindrops exploded in gouts of dust from the ground. Distant thunder rolled behind the wall, and lightning lit it up in flashes. Storms on Ward’s Mistake could often be seen coming from a long way off. They had a slow-moving, dreamlike quality. Watching it made him feel time itself slow down.
Rick was shaken from his deep reverie by a very loud thunder-clap and clods of flying dirt. He was dismayed to see the grey wall of his storm become the brown wall of an artillery barrage, moving slowly away from him and his 7th Light Horse mates in their trench at Tasmania Post on Gallipoli. It rolleddown Holly Spur, past the Ruined Hut, into no-man’s land between the front lines, and towards the Turkish Echelon and Boomerang trenches.
Now at 12.50 on the baking hot morning of the 28th of June 1915—his birthday—the air for Rick tasted not of wet earth, but of dust and cordite. Screaming metal tore at the earth, not raindrops. It was the Indian Mountain Battery and No.1 gun of Hughes’ Battery that boomed in the distance, not thunder. Flashes of explosions lit up the dust cloud, not lightning. Watching this new, more deadly storm, he still felt as if time had slowed down.
As he stood tensed, waiting for the whistle to go over, Rick again tried to block out his fear by watching the sand from the sandbags on the trench parapet close to his face trickle down the side of the trench with each explosion. Like a ghastly hourglass, it only served to remind him time was running out.
In his Section of A Troop, his best mate Bill was quietly saying goodbye to his dog; he was trying to hide his quiet sobs as he tied a note to its collar. Bates on his other side had vomited, and further down Tom was pissing against the wall of the trench. The smell was making him retch. This stunt was the first for Rick and his mates, and they were armed to the teeth with rifles, bayonets, bombs, clubs and any other lethal, home-made weapon they could get their hands on without their officers seeing. The old hands had said the first time hopping over was the worst. They were right! Rick silently prayed, ‘God if you get me safely through this and look after my mates, I’ll do anything!’
Rick gave up on the sand to distract himself. His thoughts returned home again, to an oft-recalled conversation with his father before he had enlisted . . .
*
‘No! I need you here,’ echoed his father’s words. Stunned, Rick pulled his horse up and stared at the flies on the sweat patch on his father’s back, as he swayed in the saddle ahead of him. That was the last answer he had expected, and it was totally out of character. When Rick had asked to leave the property to go away to boarding school, his father had said yes without hesitation and always seemed supportive and interested when Rick talked about what he’d been learning. He had been especially proud of the awards for history and classics Rick had received at graduation.
Rick had discovered a love and talent for studying the past. His teacher, Mr Worthy, had suggested Rick think seriously about applying to Sydney University to do a degree in history, classics or archaeology. Rick was keen, and he was sure that he would receive his father’s blessing. He couldn’t believe the flat finality of the refusal.
Bewildered, Rick trotted his horse to catch up. ‘It would only be for a couple of years, and I’d come straight back to work here,’ he went on, as if he hadn’t heard the ‘no’. If he ignored it, they could continue as if it hadn’t been said. ‘I know that’s what you want, and I do to. I just thought . . .’
‘Would you come back?’
Another shock. Where was this coming from? ‘Of course I would. You know I want to take over here one day. I know how important it is for you that the property stays in the family after all the years of hard work you’ve put into it. Why wouldn’t I want to come back? It’s important to me too. You didn’t say any of this when I went away to school,’ he argued.
‘You were younger, then; too young for you to question things. I thought I knew who you were. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘Why don’t you think I would want to come back and take over? I don’t understand. How would going away to university change that?’
‘You’ve already changed. I shouldn’t have let you go away to that school. It’s given you too many ideas.’
Rick bristled at the surprise attack on his love of history. He’d never doubted his father’s support and encouragement—until now. Rick leant over and grabbed his father’s reins to pull up his horse so he could look him in the eye. The cattle walked steadily on, their moos growing fainter. ‘How have I changed? I’m still your son!’, he protested.
His father’s gaze held Rick’s for a split second, then his eyes dropped to the ground. His shoulders sagged, and he sighed deeply. ‘That’s just why I’m afraid you won’t come back. You . . . You’re not my son.’
Rick stared open-mouthed for what seemed an eternity. Then, as hot tears of anger began to blur his vision, he spurred Minya through the mob, sending them flying in all directions, and kept going until his hurt and confusion had subsided to a dull ache.
His father found him standing on the Home Paddock hill, staring down at the homestead below. Rick shook the offered hand off his shoulder, but his father persisted in a quiet, resigned voice. ‘Your mother would never tell you this, but you’ve a right to know. Have you ever wondered why you look a lot like her, but nothing like me? It happened when she was working as a nurse during the war in South Africa. Before I knew her, she met a man. He was Dutch or German, I think. I don’t know his name. I never asked. I didn’t want to know, and she didn’t want to tell me. She was pregnant with you when she was nursing me after I was wounded. We fell in love and married as soon as we could, so we could say you were ours. We’ve never been able to have our own children because of my wound, so we’ve loved you as our own. I’ve tried to be the best father I could and want to leave you all that I’ve built here, but I can see now there are things in you that don’t come from me. That’s why I reacted the way I did. I was afraid you’d discover you were a different person, would begin to want different things, and wouldn’t come back.’
Rick was still and silent for such a long time, trying to take in all these new thoughts whirling inside his head, that his father was the first to speak again. ‘Rick, I still don’t want you to go but, if you want to, I won’t stand in your way. You need to do what you love and find your own way in life; whether that means you coming back to take over the property or something else. I can see now the choice is yours. You need to find out who you are, what you want to do with your life, and what will make you happy.’
As Rick looked down on the homestead, he should have been happy. He’d got what he wanted. But he didn’t feel happy. He had thought the future they had planned was what he wanted and would make him, and them, happy. Now he didn’t know anything for sure anymore, but at least he knew that his own stirrings had been right. He’d thought by going away he could find out who he really was and what would make him happy. What he now knew made that more urgent than ever, only now the prospect filled him with fear and uncertainty, instead of the excitement he had felt before, but he was surer he had to do it.
*
‘Will you send this package home for me?’ Bill’s plea intruded on thoughts.
‘No. You know that’s bad luck. You’ll be alright.’ Rick tried to be reassuring, but the tremor in his voice undid the effort. He could see the fear in Bill’s eyes, and knew Bill could see it in his too, robbing his words of any conviction.
Rick tried to retreat into the relative safety of his thoughts again, but any refuge there was gone. It wasn’t so much the prospect of death that made him sick and angry: it was the fact that he might never get to find out about his past or have a future to see or smell the rain coming across the paddocks at Wards’ Mistake again. He was angry at the whole bloody mess of the war; he was angry at his rashness in joining up. He was angry that this, his first and possibly last action, was only a demonstration with no other aim than to keep the Turks’ heads down: to prevent them sending reinforcements south to Cape Helles to repel a British attack there. This seemed utterly pointless to him as it would take the Turks more than a day to get their troops there anyway; where they would be much too late to make any difference. It was all such a stupid waste. Outwardly the determination to not let his family or mates down was all he had left to hold on to and keep his nerves steady.
*
‘You don’t have to do this,’ his father urged, for the hundredth time. ‘There are other, less dangerous, ways you can serve. You know your mother would never get over it if anything happened to you.’ The look on his face included him in that sentiment. ‘You could still go to university to study history instead. A war isn’t a good place to find yourself.’
That shook Rick a little. His father must be worried, he thought, to so readily offer what he had flatly refused before, but he held firm. ‘How could I look any of these boys in the eye if I don’t do it, now I’m here?’
‘You can still sign up for officer training,’ his father persisted. ‘Your education and service in the school cadets qualify you.’
‘No. If I’m going to do this, I want to stand on my own two feet. I don’t want any rank or privilege I haven’t earned myself.’
His father’s gaze dropped, acknowledging defeat. ‘Alright, alright. I’m happy you’ve at least agreed to join the Light Horse. That’ll carry on one family tradition.’
They both knew the pleading was driven by his father’s fear Rick wouldn’t want to settle back down to the family farm, get married and produce an heir; if and when he came home. They’d had this out before.
‘Look,’ Rick said, ‘I know you’re worried, but I’m going to travel, see the world and come back to you and the farm older, wiser and happier to settle down, but I need to do this first; I need to get it out of my system. It won’t change anything.’
‘The line’s moving mate!’ Bodies pressed Rick forward inexorably, like the time as a small boy he’d been caught swimming too far out in the river. His father had been quick to rescue him then . . .
‘I wish I could be so sure of that,’ his father replied, as they neared the front of the queue. ‘I’ve seen war in South Africa, and I know how it changes people. That’s if you come back at all. War isn’t a game, Rick. It’s not something you can take on your own terms. It’s bigger than you or I and it chews up men and spits them out, if not dead or maimed, then never the same. There’s a lot of things I never told you; things I still have nightmares about.’
Rick hadn’t heard his father speak like this before. His father had never said much about his experiences in the Boer War, and the emotion in his words now unsettled him. He tried to lighten what had become a dark mood. ‘This’ll be different, you’ll see. It’ll be an adventure. I’ll get to see all the places I’ve dreamed about and learn all the history I want. I’ll come home safe and sound, and I’ll have got it all out of my system. I’ll know who I am and be much happier to settle down on the farm, find a wife and have a family. Don’t worry.’
‘I hope so, Rick. I hope so.’ his father’s voice sounded more positive, but the concern hadn’t left his face.
‘Next! Papers!’, the Sergeant behind the desk bawled. Rick sensed the undue harshness was the Sergeant’s way of sorting out the waverers and time wasters, and he stepped boldly forward. He glanced at Rick’s birth certificate ‘Underage!’, then at his father, ‘Are you giving him your permission sir?’
My father glanced at me, his eyes asking the question one final time. Was this what I really wanted? His concerns had become my doubts. But the thing they hadn’t spoken of remained. If he wasn’t my real father, then who was I? I needed to know and nodded my final assent.
‘Yes, I’m signing for him,’ said his father.
*
Further down the trench Sergeant Johnson was shouting at them for the hundredth time. ‘Fix bayonets! Unload your rifles!’ If anyone was going to trip and accidently shoot someone in the back, Johnson was making damn sure he wasn’t going to be that sorry bastard.
The explosions stopped. Rick’s heart stopped. He knew it had gone, but he didn’t hear Lieutenant Elliot blow the whistle. He was scared, but now the moment had come he found courage he didn’t know he had, from deep within, and felt he could run into almost certain death with an inexplicable, uncaring, shrieking laugh. He scrabbled up the trench wall, not noticing he’d bloodied his hands and knees. He fell over on the rough ground, swore, got up and ran screaming through the scrub and hissing bullets downhill toward the Turks’ trenches in fear and anger. He could see the parapet an almost impossible 300 yards away, with helmeted Turkish heads and rifles showing above it, but his movements seemed again to have that frustratingly slow, dreamlike quality. The only sounds he could hear were his own heaving breaths, blood pounding in his ears, and his boots pounding the earth. He could taste blood, smoke and dirt in his mouth. Bullets buzzed and hummed past him like bees, but their sting was deadlier.
Just ahead and to his left, he half saw Bill pitch forward into a shell hole. Then something struck his head and lights exploded in his eyes. It felt like the time he’d forgotten his father’s warning about not startling horses by approaching them from behind and Minya had kicked him in the head, he felt his legs buckle . . .
WRIT313/513 Online Student Anthology 