narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Three

Elections. Oh dear … that is a big one on this land. Election results will be edited overnight. Dead people do vote around here. People will kill each other in cold blood, with machetes. Others will bomb innocent civilians, but the next morning, they will yell loudest about religion and racism. They will preach about the heavens. And doing good. And making the world a better place. Women and children will be burnt alive in these very worship places. And you will be asked to keep calm.

  If you have a safe home, please stay indoors, for people may be hired to get rid of you, or teach you a lesson. It will be solely based on ethnic backgrounds; this I promise you.

  Speaking of ethnicity ... more often than not, decent jobs will be reserved for certain clans and families: buddy, it is a family affair. If you have no money to buy your way into one, you are well and truly stuck.

  One way or another, you may need to start your own business.

  Nobody will have time or strength to demonstrate about cats being euthanised or whales being killed, because there will be actual human beings dying of hunger in a house made of grass and mud; people who can in fact gobble those whales in a minute or two.

  Because you may lose your hand or end up with bruises on your ear, you won’t answer your fancy mobile phone on a busy street. The caller will have to wait. Enter a supermarket or an electronic shop and answer it.

  Your Prada bag ... fake or not, you will need to carry it with care, like a little baby.

  People will be embarrassed about people they don’t know. It will be everyone’s shame; because they are one and the same. Every older woman is ‘auntie’ here. Every man is ‘uncle’ ... you are everyone’s child.

  You will lose track of the ‘cousin’ count.

  After a tragedy, people will surround the scene, whether or not danger signs scream in red. Remember, disability is not disability here; it is a curse. Something to do with the angry gods. Something that was done or wasn’t done. The ‘cursed’ will be hidden and denied opportunities.

  You will empathise and cry, but nothing much will change in the near future.

  Understandably, lecturers, teachers, doctors, nurses ... everyone will be exchanging strike-turns. That, you can take to the World Bank. At no point in time will they be paid what they deserve. Meanwhile MPs will be banging tables about raising their tax-free salaries. Citizens will continue to die.

  You won’t be able to save all of them. I know you will try to.

  People will bombard you with food, whether or not you clearly state you just ate. If you do not fancy being labelled ‘rude and proud’, you will need to taste it. They will take it upon themselves to marvel that you are mzungu thin. They will ask if there is no food in Australia or wherever it is you came from ... the ‘white world’ or majuu.

  You will smile and let it slide.

  Without a doubt, there will be lovely places and beautiful creatures to see. You will see green and brown; the fresh and the dying. You will see the blue waters. You can lay your tired head on white sand, listen to the tide and hear beach boys argue humorously about fishing . . . and you will forget your problems for a little while.

  People do fall in love here too. They laugh. They make love and have sex. They eat and drink and play sports. They are good swimmers too. Boy! Don’t they dance!

  Life goes on here too.

  The world that comes third.

  Grab a chair; I have a lot more to tell you, if you promise to listen. I might be able to explain why it still comes first in my heart.

  I was born here.

  Here in this familiar world that comes third.

  A road to somewhere.

  Friday 10 May 2013

  Let’s Party

  Marilyn Linn

  Darlington, SA

  Tonight there was going to be a party for grown-ups at our house and next-doors were coming over. It was already dusk when I heard their gate squeak. We had had our tea and were in our pyjamas.

  Mum pushed my bed right up to my brother’s bed and told us four children to stay in the room and keep the door shut. She said we could have the light on as long as we didn’t make too much noise.

  We chatted and giggled for a while and then we decided to read. We soon tired of reading books because Danny and Enid couldn’t read and they wanted Veronica and me to read to them. So we invented games. Making caves under the bed was fun for a while, but then we started jumping on the beds. Usually we got into trouble if we played trampolines, but we made a deal not to tell. We bounced from one bed to the other, from the head to the foot, two at a time and crossing over. The noise must have been terrible but no-one came to stop us.

  We tired of the jumping game and decided to try for a drink. My brother was too young to vote so we decided the eldest should go. Veronica, from next-door, was the eldest.

  Slowly, she opened the door and we held our collective breath. I couldn’t see Veronica but I could hear the adults. I knew what it sounded like. I’d heard that noise before. The adults would all be bad tempered in the morning.

  ‘Get back in your room, you kids!’

  I wasn’t out of the room, why include me? Veronica came back and for a while we were all quiet.

  Perhaps if the youngest one went out we might get a drink – it was worth a try. Danny was the youngest. I had to push him out of the bedroom door because he didn’t want to go. I told him he had to or we might die of thirst like cattle do sometimes. We’d seen them on TV. We all crowded around the doorway and waited silently.

  ‘If you lot come out again – you’ll ALL get a hiding. Shut up and go to sleep!’

  The man’s voice was the one I didn’t recognise. We looked out the window into the vast black emptiness of the night. The stranger must have walked because we could see there were no cars outside.

  I was feeling anxious now and I knew the others felt the same. I felt terrible because it was my fault my little brother got yelled at and the man’s voice sounded like it meant what it said. I didn’t like these parties.

  I decided we should try to go to sleep. One child each end of the bed – that was the rule. Sometimes Danny wet his bed so I had to sleep with him. No-one wanted to wake up with their feet in a wet spot. The beds were wrecked from jumping on them. The blankets were all falling off and Veronica and I struggled to get things back together again.

  ‘O o o o O O O O o o o,’ went Enid.

  We all giggled, so she did it again. I got out of bed and switched off the light. This could be fun!

  ‘Let’s tell ghost stories,’ whispered Veronica.

  We jumped of bed again and huddled under the bed nearest the door. I could never understand why we always crouched under the beds to tell ghost stories. Enid said it made them scarier.

  I wasn’t scared, but before long Danny was crying. I tried to comfort him but he howled, louder and louder. Enid and Veronica pretended to cry too, and next thing, I was really crying.

  A head appeared round the doorway into the dark room and I knew it was Mum.

  ‘If you lot don’t go to sleep, you’ll be in trouble,’ she threatened, not very convincingly. She never hit us.

  She closed the door quietly and I noticed she had left a plate of lollies just inside. There were Smarties and jelly babies and some pieces of mandarins. I liked them all but Enid didn’t like the smell of the mandies. She started whingeing again.

  The lollies worked well for a while, but then Veronica started to grizzle. She wanted to go home and I wanted her to go, too.

  ‘Go and tell your Mum you can’t go to sleep. She might take you home. Tell her you feel sick or something.’

  I could hear her snivelling down the passageway and she sounded like she might even manage to be sick if she tried hard enough.

  Then I heard the whack she collected.

  ‘Can’t you control your brat kids?’ The stranger yelled into the passageway which looked long, dark and narrow in the shadow of the night. The light from the kitchen appeared to be far away.

  I hel
d the door open for Veronica as she ran back to the bedroom, howling. I felt desperately unhappy. Danny had not quite made the potty and now there was a mess. Everyone was tearful.

  The bedroom door burst open and the light snapped on.

  ‘I hate kids!’ My father yelled so loud the veins in his neck stood out and his mad-dog eyes darted, unfocused, around the room. He grabbed me by my arm and dragged me towards the door, shaking me so violently I bit my tongue.

  ‘Don’t Daddy! Don’t hit me! I didn’t do anything wrong!’ I cried hopelessly, terrified.

  He lurched, throwing me aside, and grabbed the new skirt Mum had made for me. She had hung it on the door handle for me to look at. He mindlessly, madly, ripped the bodice off my best, new skirt. Seeming to forget me, he went out of the room, yelling at Mum. It made me cry even more when Mum saw my new skirt, torn, on the floor.

  She was crying as she picked it up. ‘Please, be quiet and go to sleep,’ she pleaded through her tears.

  Subdued and frightened, we eventually slept.

  The next morning, I saw my father sleeping out in the old caravan. It was my play-house. I didn’t want him to be in there.

  Next-doors had left without their kids. Mum sent them home after breakfast.

  I helped Mum clean up the empty bottles and full ash-trays from the night before. Mum said she needed my help because she had a headache. She didn’t look very well.

  She probably didn’t enjoy the party either.

  Saturday 11 May 2013 4 pm

  Nobody Is Perfect

  Armin Boko

  Lake Heights, NSW

  Only with eyes of his

  Could eagle spot the miniscule

  Ant foraging on the ground.

  Fully fed and content

  Eagle took pity on

  The solitary little fellow.

  ‘For goodness sake, alone,

  So small, such short sighted creature,

  How can you ever find your way to

  A morsel hidden on the ground?’

  Little ant scout got the message

  Loud an’ clear and promptly replied:

  ‘With the entire world to see

  My feathery noble friend

  Lord Master of the sky,

  See far and wide you can indeed,

  Alas, you cannot see

  What’s under your nose.

  ’Cause if you did you’d also know

  My cousin is hitching a free flight

  To you unbeknown. In amongst

  Your under-carriage feathers

  There’d be a few more of my kind.

  You see big bird nobody knows it all.’

  Sunday 12 May 2013

  Dreaming

  Robyn Chaffey

  Hazelbrook, NSW

  Mother’s Day’s a funny time!

  Peculiar ‘funny’,

  You know, that’s what I mean.

  In this age of stress and overload

  I think perhaps

  It’s mums who often cop the flak.

  Somehow it just seems easier!

  Why take stock?

  Just lay it all at her feet – she’s there!

  Then Mother’s Day comes round again.

  Duty calls!

  Gifts … the year’s communion to replace … with love!

  This year I really was presented

  case in point

  With which my meaning to explain!

  A shower gel by ‘LUSH’

  Fresh-made by hand they say …

  With sex-appeal …

  from honey!

  It is … the label states

  ‘Lascivious,

  Licentious,

  Vivacious

  And insatiable

  With finest aphrodisiac essential oils –

  Masses of jasmine!’

  But the very best thing of all

  About the lovingly thoughtful gift

  Presented to me this Mother’s Day

  In its neatly prepacked box,

  Mid my daughter’s busy, stressful life,

  Is the promise at the bottom

  Of the swish designer label.

  It is of course just what I need

  This shower gel,

  As my sixties quickly do approach

  This most potent magic potion,

  Tells in brackets

  It contains, ‘the three best essential oils …

  P – M – S to control’!!

  In the busyness of living, finding love …

  Claiming self,

  I think my ‘child’ has failed to notice.

  Yes, failed to note the greying of my hair,

  Wrinkled face …

  That gravity (of life!) has changed my shape.

  Now today I’m left to ponder as I’m wand’ring

  through my day …

  Is it me, or is it she, through life is dreaming?

  Sunday 12 May 2013 2 pm

  Desk Space

  Emma Hall

  Canterbury, VIC

  There are hardly any white spaces

  On the crowded desk, covered

  In texts, bookmarked in certain places,

  And with whole paragraphs smothered

  In notes and underlines, in most cases

  Signifying a notion, a concept, a theme

  I need to know for study or work,

  Or otherwise something for my writing –

  Because I know that ideas, fast as lightning,

  Will disappear from thought like a dream.

  The bin is overflowing: an empty coffee cup,

  Scraps of paper, pens long since dried up,

  Used in filling with words many small notebooks

  Which line my shelf, in fact it looks

  As though I have a funny quirk

  Of collecting these, as over the years

  I have accumulated many, along

  With trinkets, symbols of laughter and tears,

  Some that I have kept for a long

  Time now. On the radio, a slow love song

  I don’t know how it goes.

  It’s simply soothing background sound,

  Songs of smiles and Christmas snows,

  And cold clear nights that abound

  In possibilities, waiting to be found

  .

  Monday 13 May 2013

  Please Explain, Time!

  Ariette Singer

  Canberra, ACT

  Dear Time! You’re always on my anxious mind!

  To my chagrin, consistently, you pass me by,

  March on, and never wait! Relentless and unkind,

  You don’t stay good, but hugely fluctuate! Why?

  So often, you are of the essence, dangerous or strange!

  At times, too ready to be wasted, or are not quite right …

  And, when you’re difficult – you take too long to change!

  Of course, we don’t like to miss or lose, or you being tight.

  Sometimes, we … kill you, or have none at all to spare,

  And foolishly mismanage precious you, which is unfair …

  We’ve learned to borrow you, do over or cleverly two-time!

  Oh, by the way, if … ‘Time is money’ – where is mine???

  I’m truly puzzled … why are you bent, always, to run … out?

  I’d love to see how you could … happily run in! Or ‘round’?

  Hmmm … we always use a Tenor to define you, is it not true?

  Would not a Soprano or a lovely Mezzo rather nicely do?

  It’s undeniable, that, irreversibly, we’re stuck with you …

  And you will never change your job ... but do be aware –

  That some of us are stressing out, trying ‘to move with’ you!

  Instead, you ought to ‘move’ with us – to show us you care!

  Why do you never stop to chat with us to communicate;

  To find out our needs, apologise and take suggestions?

  We’ve realis
ed, it’s really time to re-adjust your ways –

  So you, Time, can be of better service to the human race!

  Apropos! Why do we call you … ‘Old Father Time’?

  Old ...? Don’t sweat alone! Get help from Mother Time!

  Bet, benefits will soon be felt from her gentler touch,

  And … with her assistance – you might improve by much!

  And lastly, if it is difficult to stop for me, and you must ‘fly’ …

  Then please! Try to fly sloooooowly – when you pass me by!

  Monday 13 May 2013 4 pm

  A Nonsense

  Ruth Withers

  Uarbry, NSW

  Twiddle de dum, twiddle de dee,

  I've nothing to say, and I'll say it for free.

  Just give me a tweak and I'll start with my saying

  And saying and saying until, you are praying

  I'll hush up and shut up and go far away

  And never more think of a thing I can say.

  Twiddle de dee, twiddle de dum,

  I've plenty to do, but it never gets done.

  I dilly and dally and twiddle my thumbs

  And think of the doing and make myself glum.

  Perhaps if I deedled and dumbled de twid

  The things I've not done would finally get did.

  So here I sit, deedling and dumbling away;

  I’ve been at it now for some forty-eight days.

  I twillied and twallied and diddled my thumbs,

  Until nothing was left but two little stumps,

  And still everything I’ve not done is un-did;

  So much for my deedling and dumbling de twid.

  So I’ll twiddle de dum and I’ll twiddle de dee,

  And although I say nothing, I’ll say it for free.

  I’ll be so busy saying, and you with your praying,

  That things left undone will not seem so dismaying.

  I’ll never more deedle nor dumble again,

  And I’ll twiddle my stumps to a cheerful refrain.

  Tuesday 14 May 2013

  A Childhood Friendship

  Robert Murphy

  Newtown, NSW

  When I was twelve I became aware of two girls called Susie and Claire. They knew each other, and lived near my new friend Colin, on the quiet, pleasant cul-de-sacs off Whitethorn Drive. I thought they were beautiful, and I became fascinated by their features. Light brown and blonde mingled in Susie’s hair, which she kept from her clear, oval, pinkish face with a hairband. Claire was darker, and had long hair which she let fall to her shoulders. Her face was more angular than Susie’s, and I now suspect that she was less pretty, but I preferred her, perhaps because she looked less like me. I did not know then that I would never speak to either of them.

  I was proud of my new crushes, and believed that it was essential for boys of my age to have them, that they were signs of maturity and distinction, and that they would endure. Other boys spoke openly of the girls they fancied. I did not dare to, until Colin asked me in the schoolyard one day if I liked anyone. I said yes, almost in a whisper. He was about to ask for a name, but other boys approached us, and he said ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ I was thrilled, and felt that a great event was imminent.

  As we were walking home that afternoon, just after passing the girls’ school and the church, and broaching a path of soft, compact mud that had been crushed into the grass of a nearby green by the feet of thousands of schoolchildren, Colin led me away from the group of boys of which we had been part. It included boys called Eoin, Joseph, Simon and Christopher, who were friends of Colin’s. Although they were no more than a few months older than I was, they seemed adult and confident to me. One of them asked Colin where we were going, and he replied, ‘I’m just going to have a chat with Tony’, with a look that suggested he did not want us to be disturbed. The other boy seemed to understand, and asked no more questions.

  Hesitantly, I told Colin that I liked Susie and Claire. He received the information thoughtfully, saying nothing for a moment. Then he told me that he liked Susie as well. Unlike me, he knew her, but he told me that he did not think he had much of a chance with her. Later I asked myself, ‘A chance of what? Of kissing her? Of becoming her boyfriend?’ My thoughts had not yet begun to venture beyond this point.

  I felt that an important bond had been created between Colin and me by this confidence. My desire for his friendship was as powerful as my desire to know Susie and Claire. There was not yet much difference between the two; in fact, at this time, my longing for more friends of my own sex was still greater than any other. I knew that some boys rang each other in the evenings after school, to talk about homework, or sport, or to make plans for the weekend. I rang a few boys, but I considered them no higher in status than myself, and I did not value their friendship. Although Colin and I had begun to spend quite a lot of time together at school, we never saw each other or spoke at other times. I longed for his telephone number without daring to ask for it. I believed that, until I got it, I could not consider myself a true friend of his, nor could I be sure that he had as much respect or affection for me as he did for his other friends.

  On another sunny afternoon, while walking home with the same group of boys, one of them, as a joke, drew a line on my cheek with a thick black marker. They found my irritation amusing. They stopped at the gate of one of their homes and continued talking. I remained with them, but I was still annoyed and tense, and deliberately stood with the marked side of my face away from the street. The other boys paid no attention to me, but after a few minutes I noticed Colin looking at me curiously, and then he said, with a lazy malice that was uncharacteristic of him, ‘I think the reason Tony’s so pissed off is he’s worried that Claire or Susie will see him.’ He was right, but I denied what he had said unconvincingly. I was furious and embarrassed. I blushed intensely. I had never spoken to the other boys about the two girls, but at times it occurred to me painfully that Colin might have repeated to them what I had told him, and I regretted not making him promise to keep it secret. They showed no interest in his remark. I was profoundly convinced that being seen by the girls in this condition, in the enchanted neighbourhood they inhabited, would be, in some vague way, disastrous. Still it was not clear in my mind what exactly I wanted to happen between me and them.

  An awards ceremony for local sports teams was announced in June. It was to be held in the main hall of the school, and there would be speeches, music and food. On the long, sunny evening on which it took place, as I approached the school on my bicycle, I saw Susie and Claire sitting on the green gate at the front. A boy with thick blonde hair was leaning on a bicycle, facing them, his back to me. From that angle he looked like Colin, and instantly, with a burst of excitement, I became certain that I was finally about to be introduced to the two girls. I began to cycle more quickly, and when I reached the small group at the gate I had to brake suddenly. My bicycle, which had belonged to my older brother and had been repaired many times by my father, gave a shriek. I looked up in embarrassment, with my mouth open, ready to speak to the boy, and saw with horror that it was not Colin. I stared at him for a few seconds, and he said ‘Wrong guy?’ sympathetically. I mumbled ‘Sorry’ and began to cycle away hurriedly. Claire burst into piercing laughter. Just before I became unable to hear them, I heard Susie trying to silence her, with compassion in her voice.

  I called to the house of a friend who lived across the road from another side of the school. His mother told me that he had already gone over with his friends. Indecisively I cycled along the street for a few moments, and then returned cautiously to the gate of the school, which was now deserted. I looked at the large, illuminated windows of the hall, and listened to the laughter and applause, which drifted out to me on the warm summer air. I could not force myself to enter alone, so I cycled along the silent, resting, twilit streets of the neighbourhood for some more time, and then returned home.