W is for Waveney and the Wall

In a big city near the sea, there was a small boy of ten called Waveney. He was his parents’ only child.

Six days a week Waveney went to college. On his day off he played at home or went on excursions with his parents. Waveney’s mother helped him with his reading and numbers homework. His father brought home new books and toys from the children’s market. His two friends at college liked the same things he did. It was a good life.

On one of his days off, Waveney was playing in the garden at the back of his house when he heard a scrabbling noise near the garden wall. At first he thought it was a cat, but then he heard grunting and realised it was a person.

He stared at the wall. He thought about yelling, ‘Intruder! Intruder!’ as he had seen the Officers do, but something stopped him. He just crouched there on the ground, his heart thudding, listening to the scrabbling noise on the other side of the wall.

Suddenly two thickly gloved hands appeared at the top of the wall. Soon after came a head of curly brown hair. Following that was a boy of about thirteen. He looked like a Provincial, with his laced shirt and the leather-bound amulet strung around his neck. Waveney was instantly wary. He had to be careful around Provincials. He never spoke to them because they were different. They stayed on the Northern side of the city and he stayed on the South. It had always been that way.

This Provincial did not look dangerous but there was a distinct air of confidence about him. He moved as if he owned the wall.

The boy’s gaze narrowed in on Waveney, who did not know what to do. He was angry that this young Provincial was climbing his wall; but he was also afraid that the boy might do something to him. Provincials were known to be rough and unpredictable.

‘What are you doing down there?’ said the boy.

Waveney gripped his figurines tighter and scowled. ‘Playing a game. What are you doing?’

‘Climbing this old wall. What did you think I was doing?’ There was a smirk on the boy’s face as he slung his legs over the wall.

‘You’re not allowed to climb there. It’s my wall,’ said Waveney.

‘It’s not your wall. This is the Northern side. I can climb it all I like.’

The boy and Waveney glared at each other. Waveney was sure that the wall was nowhere near the North Quarter. He thought the boy had another excuse for climbing up there, something sly. No one had climbed their wall before.

‘Are you spying on me?’ said Waveney loudly.

‘Spy on you? I have better things to do. I saw you had a fruit tree and I wanted to get some fruit.’ At that, the boy began shuffling over to the fruit tree.

‘That’s my fruit tree!’ Waveney had not cared much for the fruit tree before, but now he felt that he should protect it. He had a strong urge to defend it from this brash Provincial boy.

‘Perhaps it is, perhaps it isn’t,’ said the boy, plucking fruit off the tree.

Waveney felt hot and angry. He sprang up from the ground and was about to run inside and shout for help when the boy called out to him.

‘You can’t do that. Half the tree’s hanging over the Northern side. So am I. They can’t do anything.’ The boy smiled coolly as he picked more fruit off the branches.

‘The tree does not hang over your side!’ said Waveney.

‘Yes it does. If you came over my side you’d see that it does. There’s fruit all over the ground. Problem is, it’s all rotten – that’s why I have to get up here.’ The boy even had a sack to carry the fruit in. It was bulging with fruit.

‘But I can’t get over your side. I’m not allowed to,’ Waveney said, dropping his figurines. ‘And you’re probably lying.’

‘If you stop sulking and think hard enough you’ll find a way. How do you think I got up here? Did you see me flap out of the sky?’ The boy laughed and flung the sack over his shoulder.

‘You’re just a thief,’ said Waveney, scowling.

The boy grinned. ‘You’re just a baby. Thanks for the fruit!’ He nodded to Waveney and there was a dull thump as he dropped to the ground on the other side.

Waveney pouted and kicked one of his figurines, sending it tumbling across pebbles.

The boy thought he was a baby. He’d never been called that before. Waveney felt his face heat up. He hadn’t been able to defend his territory. The boy had stolen half the fruit from their tree.

Something bright and sharp sparked in Waveney’s chest. He peered up at the garden wall, at the spot where the boy had been, and for the first time wondered how to climb the wall.

V is for Vincent’s revenge

Vincent went to the community hall every day the play was showing. It was called Speaking In Tongues and it was not one of the happy plays. It was June and it was cold; the half hour walk to the theatre made Vincent sweat by the time he reached the community hall. He liked the walk. He said hello to the old man walking his little brown dog and the runner wearing pink and yellow sneakers.

Vincent was big, with a large face, grey eyes and brown hair that his sister cut for him. He wore black tracksuit pants every night. When he walked he stumped along unevenly and his hands seemed to move of their own accord. This was not ideal because his job was to help the male actors change into their costumes in the darkness off stage. The changes were very quick and he and the stage manager were supposed to make sure everything was well organised before the play began. But Sandra was always too busy sorting out issues with the lighting box, so it was usually left to him.

Vincent seemed younger than his 34 years. No one was sure how he came to be at the hall; he might have been the relative of someone on the hall committee. He just appeared at the first dress rehearsal and everyone grew used to his solid, quiet presence.

On the sixth night of the season there were problems with the lighting cues and the actor playing Leon and Nick forgot a line. The actor’s name was Tobias and he was took his theatre very seriously. Mostly he ignored Vincent, who always sat in a plastic chair in the right wings, ready to help him with his costume change. But on this night Tobias was in one of his foul moods. He swore at Vincent, who was fumbling with his costume, and then ripped the jacket from Vincent’s hands.

‘You hopeless dickhead, get out of my way!’ Tobias hissed. He yanked the jacket on, glaring through the gloom at Vincent. ‘Fucking hopeless.’ Then he slid past the curtain and was back on stage.

Vincent sat back down heavily. This was not the first time Tobias had hissed or sworn at him, but it was the first time it had been witnessed. The other male actor, whose name was Mark, was standing several feet away when Tobias lost his cool.

He approached Vincent as Tobias’s voice carried through the curtains. ‘He should apologise for that. You’re doing a good job, Vincent. Don’t take any notice of him.’

‘He’s a wanker,’ said Vincent.

‘Yes, he can be.’

Then Mark went on stage too and Vincent was left to sit in the wings, uncomfortable on the too-small chair. There were two costume changes left to go. A hot feeling spread through his belly as Vincent replaced the jumper that was up next with a purple and pink hoodie that Sandra had changed out of before the show and forgotten to remove.

Vincent sat in the darkness, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and waited for the stage lights to dim for the next scene.

M is for a Million Miles Away

Last Tuesday I woke up and the leaves on the maple were yellow. Autumn arrived and is making her presence known. Up and down the street the trees are shedding their leaves. It’s chilly at night; I saw my breath clouding when I put the bins out yesterday.

Work’s been busy. We’ve had a few people off sick – with the change in the weather comes the colds – so I’ve been under the pump doing relief work. It’s stressful but it’s good money…and a good distraction. I’m going to visit my parents in two weeks. They’ve been so supportive since they visited; Mum’s still calling every couple of days just to check in. Usually this would piss me off (as you well know!) but I’ve come to look forward to talking to her. Anyway, it will be good to go home and see Katie and Philip too. There’s nothing quite like friends from school to boost the spirits.

Next Thursday it will be five months since you left. I keep thinking how strangely time passes; some days it feels like only yesterday that you were sitting here beside me. Other days, it feels like years have gone by and I find myself forgetting little details about you, like the freckle below your left ear and how you used to take ages to drink your tea. I want to remember those details. I want to remember the little things.

You’re a million miles away from here tonight, but I still feel that thread connecting us. It hasn’t faded yet. It’s still shining, bridging the gap between my heart and yours.

L is for Let go

The hospice was all disinfectant and muted light. My mother and my shoes barely made a sound on the carpeted floors as we walked toward the day room. The residents were all parked around the room in varying states of awareness. A few family members and friends sat with them, reading to them or holding their hand. The TV played at a low hum in one corner. It was midday but it was twilight in this place.

‘Hello, Mrs Peters. And Michaela,’ said the nurse at reception. ‘Carol is in her room. She’s just having a sleep; she probably won’t wake up for a while.’

My mother nodded. ‘Thank you. We just want to see her.’

We walked across the day room and down another corridor. Generic floral and landscape paintings hung on the cream-coloured walls. The stale smell of roasted vegetables was stronger here. I caught glimpses of elderly people in bed, their mouths gaping open as if sucking in air, as if they were leaking life. I’d been visiting this hospice for weeks but the sight and smell of death so close still gave me chills.

Room 9 was Nanna’s. We’d fought to get her a room with some kind of view because she had loved her garden. Dark red roses were her favourite, with their deep rich fragrance.

We quietly entered her room and put our bags down. My mother moved to Nanna’s side and gently smoothed her wispy hair back from her face. She kissed Nanna’s forehead and sat in the chair beside the bed. I brought over the other chair and sat next to my mother.

When I pressed my hand on Nanna’s veiny one, I was shocked at the coolness of her skin. She had lost a lot of condition in only five days. The thing that had grown in her belly had spread all through her like a poisonous vine. She was as fragile as a late autumn leaf. I looked at her face, at her eyes that had sunk back in her face, and her mouth that was shrunken. That mouth that had asked me about school, those eyes that had twinkled behind her huge spectacles as I unwrapped a present.

‘She’s gone downhill pretty quickly,’ I whispered to my mother.

‘She’s leaving us, I think.’ She reached out to take the hand that I’d touched. I saw a tear drop from my mother’s cheek and onto her knee. ‘Rest now, Mum. You don’t need to fight it anymore. You just sleep.’

We sat there for a time, waiting for Nanna to let go.

K is for Kin

Over the last week I suddenly got very busy with work and various appointments – and realised that I hadn’t posted anything for several days! Oops! There goes my A to Z for April Challenge. Oh well, I will still get to Z, but just not in one month. 

This story came to me from nowhere. I’ve always found cemeteries to be quite moving places. In some parts of the world it’s a tradition to visit the graves of your ancestors during the year, to pay respects and remember them in life. 

Lina woke to the sun slanting through her curtains. Usually the day started in the dark. She panicked for a moment – she’d miss the train to school – and then remembered: it was the Day of Souls. It was a public holiday and meant a trip out to the middle of nowhere to the cemetery that held grandma and grandpa’s graves.

After getting dressed Lina helped her mother pack a picnic lunch and prepare water and a brush for cleaning the graves.

‘We’d better get going or we’ll be late,’ said Lina’s father, picking up the picnic basket.

They made it to the train station in ten minutes. Families were milling about along the platform. A train pulled in and a flood of people poured out. Lina’s father anxiously checked the train timetable. ‘Hope they haven’t been held up,’ he said.

‘If they have they would’ve let us know,’ said Lina’s mother.

‘They’ll be here,’ said Lina, watching a young couple hurry by, hand in hand. She was watching them disappear down the stairway when she felt a hand touch her shoulder.

‘Lee-lee! What’s got your attention?’ Lina’s sister Karen, embracing her. She held a basket with two bunches of white lilies. ‘Could it be a handsome young man by any chance?’

‘I’m not the one with the boy fixation,’ Lina laughed.

Lina’s brother was standing behind. Josh grinned and gave her a one-armed hug. ‘Good to see you again, little sis.’

‘Come on, you three, here’s the train now,’ said Lina’s father. They all followed him into a carriage and found a cluster of seats.

Between the standing commuters Lina caught glimpses of the tightly packed city buildings. It was a blur of concrete grey and bright advertisements. She half-listened to her parents asking her siblings questions about work, university, apartments. As the city gave way to green, the train became less crowded. Lina saw fields and farms as the train flew across the land.

Their stop was the second to last on this line. The station was old and open to the elements. Three other families got off at the same stop and they all made their way down the lane that led to the cemetery. It was a lushly green part of the world; dark green hills towered in the distance and a river rushed nearby. Karen’s laugh seemed to reach further out here.

‘Ross Bay Cemetery Fall Colors,’ 30 November 2013, Image courtesy of Wikimedia.

The cemetery was old but well-tended. Rows of graves spread out into a roughly rectangular area. Most of the autumn leaves from the maples and beech trees had been swept away. Some graves were ancient and crumbling and pitted, the names engraved almost indecipherable. Others were newer and had not yet settled into the earth.

Lina’s siblings became quiet as they walked down the centre path and turned down the one that led to their family’s burial area. Grandma and grandpa’s graves were identical except for the names and epitaphs. Grandma Suzie, Grandpa Jack. Died within four years of each other and came back home to rest together.

Lina’s mother knelt before the graves and removed the heavy vases that still held remnants of old flowers. Lina and Josh took the vases and emptied them out at the edge of the cemetery. Lina’s mother brought out the brush and water bottle from her bag and carefully swept away leaves, dirt and twigs from the graves. She stepped away as Lina’s father poured water over. It caught the sunlight as it ran over and down the sides of the headstones. Karen crouched down and put the flowers in each vase and set them on the headstone.

Lina saw her parents bow their heads and lowered hers. She listened to the wood doves cooing and the distant drone of a car and remembered her grandparents. They had always been old to her; her grandpa had been a quiet, stern man who took them to the bakery for jam and cream buns. Her grandma had been warm and was always in the garden with her roses. Lina remembered Josh receiving a sharp telling off for kicking a ball into the garden and snapping off rose branches. She remembered hot sweet cups of tea and buttery biscuits in front of the television, and her grandpa’s rare cheeky smile.

Patchy sunlight fell onto Lina’s face as she stood before her grandparents and their parents, who were grown into the earth. Around her was her family. Kin.

I is for Instinct

‘Can you see him?’

‘Where?’

‘Over there, the bush next to the roses. At the bottom.’

‘I can’t see – oh, yes, there he is.’

‘He looks like he’s stalking that pigeon,’ said my mother beside me. ‘I think we should stop him. Your neighbours will complain if he starts killing things.’

‘Mum, he’s never managed to catch anything before. He’s a useless hunter – he can’t even catch a blowfly.’

‘Hmm.’ We watched as Waldo the ginger cat crept over the dirt beneath the bush, inching closer to the pigeon. Slowly, he raised himself into a pounce pose and even from our vantage point 10 feet away, we could see him wiggling his bum in preparation to launch.

The pigeon seemed oblivious. It was pecking this way and that, every now and then snapping its little head about to check for danger. Clearly it had encountered Waldo before and knew not to be concerned.

‘He’s going for it,’ my mother murmured.

And sure enough he did; with one final wiggle, Waldo sprang out from beneath the bush like a fiery floor mop. And he missed the pigeon by a mile, as usual.

‘See, he’s not a hunter. The birds are safe,’ I said, gesturing at Waldo, who was staring up at the sky.

‘One day he’ll catch something. He’s a cat, after all – that’s what cats do.’

‘Maybe he has the instinct to hunt, but he doesn’t have the ability.’ Waldo sidled over and I reached down to stroke his fluffy back.

‘Better to be a handsome hot water bottle than a hunter, anyway,’ my mother said as Waldo jumped onto her lap.

A few moments later, another pigeon landed in the garden. Waldo settled in for a snooze.

H is for Her

She is there in the morning, waking beside me. She goes out to the kitchen and makes tea. I hear her turn on the radio. I am waking to the sound of her humming that pop song that’s always playing, to the kettle boiling, to her smiling eyes.

The house shows she has been here and that she is coming back. Her bag, her clothes, her toothbrush, the smell of her shampoo. A photo in a frame on the shelves in the living room – it shows her face and mine. There is a note on the table. It’s in her handwriting, a loopy scribble in black ink, saying have a good day, darling, see you tonight, xo.

I have a busy day with work and errands, phone calls and traffic jams. I heave myself through the door and dump my bags. The dog needs feeding and patting. I get a beer from the fridge and put the lasagne in the oven.

The sun is setting when I hear the gate open and close. The doorknob turns, and she is there. Her ‘hello’, her sighs, her beautiful tired eyes.

Now the morning is silent without her.

D is for Doctor Blau

His name was Doctor Blau, but Fiona called him Dr Bowtie. Dr Blau seemed to own a multitude of bowties because in the three years he’d been her GP she’d never known him to wear the same one twice. He had all kinds; spotty, stripy, checkered, bright, dark, silk and cotton. They were like little birds, perched neatly under his wobbly chin.

Doctor Blau’s birth country lingered in his speech, with what can I help you with sometimes coming out as vot can I help you vith. He wore thick glasses and was fond of peppermint tea. His big Qantas mug had a permanent station on his desk next to the framed photo of his wife.

Fiona began seeing him when her usual GP left to have a baby and Dr Blau was the only doctor available. She soon found out that he was frequently available. Dr Blau had a lot of medical knowledge and a kind manner; he was very efficient when she’d needed prescriptions or get the flu jab. She wondered why he wasn’t booked out.

At one point Fiona was struggling with a breakup and job-related stress. She wanted to talk to Dr Blau about her options and was relieved to get in to see him the next day.

As usual, she hardly had to wait before Dr Blau called her in. ‘Good morning, Fiona. How have you been?’ he said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. His pink and grey-striped bowtie jiggled under his chin.

Fiona took a deep breath and began talking. Soon she was crying. Dr Blau handed her a box of tissues.

‘I just can’t-can’t believe all this is happening all at once-‘ said Fiona with a hiccup.

‘It sounds like a to deal vith. Sometimes you just need to let it out.’

Fiona nodded, wiped her eyes and kept talking. It had been a very stressful time and she’d been trying not to think about things. Now it was all gushing out like a river breaking its banks.

Dr Blau, meanwhile, was nodding and leaning back in his chair. The longer that Fiona talked, the less he nodded and the more he leaned back.

Five minutes later Fiona gulped and stared at Dr Blau. His eyes were closed. His mouth had drooped and his bowtie was lopsided. He had fallen asleep.

After that Fiona only went to see him when she got a bug, which suited them both.