De-ja Vu

“How many times have I told you Miranda? Don’t stare into space!”

The teacher’s voice slowly broke into my consciousness and I struggled to keep my attention on the subject in hand; history, a lesson I always found it difficult to concentrate on.

It wasn’t until many years later when I learned of the number of wives Henry VIII had, and what happened to the less fortunate of them that I wondered why, when history had surprises in store around every corner, those in the education game in my youth made it entirely boring. What else could a girl do, but gaze?

Staring into space! Huh, if only that teacher knew! It wasn’t space that captured my thoughts; it was the other world encroaching.

For some time I allowed myself to be transported back in time, and all in the blink of an eye. I could be sitting quietly when suddenly I knew I had been in this space and place sometime in the past. For ages I kept quiet. After all, we all had heard about silly old Billy who ended up in the Asylum [spelt with a capital A].

The Asylum didn’t bear thinking about. Once a patient crossed the threshold of that establishment they were doomed to a life inside, a life of unimagined horrors stories of which drifted beyond the grey, stone, walls like rotting seaweed after abnormally high tides. You know the smells? Driving along a winding narrow road near the ocean one’s nostrils are suddenly assailed by a pong fit to make the nose disappear off a hedgehog, not that a hedgehog prefers the narrow sandy strips between ocean and highway.

The poor souls incarcerated behind those walls were seldom released to the Outside World. They existed, or so we are led to believe.

So, for simply ages I kept my little secret excursions into the Other Space. A short visit every so often was enough. Deliberately seeking to find that Other Space all the time, even I knew, might not be a sign of a healthy mind. Still, it did make those boring moments in the classroom tolerable.

One day, as Miranda was walking with her Aunt along a long white graveled dusty road, the grassy slope of a hillside where sheep grazed in contentment rolling to the coastline, she noticed out at sea a boat. This boat was unlike any that plied the coast today.

Casting a quick look at Aunt Miranda realised that this spectacular view had not captured Aunt’s attention. And not knowing where or what this boat represented Miranda inquired, “Aunt? What boat is that?”

Aunt stared at Miranda, then out to sea, then back to Miranda. Miranda was gazing beyond the horizon where the waves rolled gently in, crashing on the rocks splashing up a wondrous spray. Aunt gave the matter her full attention, took the binoculars from her shoulder bag and put them to her eyes. Nothing was in view. She looked back at Miranda who still gazed into the distance.

Aunt touched Miranda gently on the shoulder intending to inquire in which direction to look when Miranda, shook her head slightly as if clearing her mind, and visibly refocused her eyes. The distant look disappeared. Miranda looked uncomprehendingly at Aunt.

“I was on that boat just the other day,” Miranda stated.

Aunt gently reminded her that she had been living with her at the seaside for the past two years and neither of them had taken a boat trip.

“But Aunt, I could see everything so clearly. I was there, yet now I am not so sure.”

A slight wobble in Miranda’s voice gave Aunt a clue. She asked Miranda is she often woke from a dream, or a daydream, knowing that what she had seen just couldn’t be. Miranda confessed she had, and by the dawning look in her eyes it became obvious to them both that this was another of those occasions.

“Miranda”, replied Aunt, “You have experienced De-ja Vu.” She proceeded to explain that de-ja vu occurred when the brain skipped a rhythm. Miranda nodded, accepting the explanation, even though it made no sense.

As happens in most stories time goes by, and Miranda grew out of the strange de-ja vu experiences as exciting times in the life of a young woman unfolded.

It wasn’t until we were high on a rock in the middle of no-where that Miranda turned to me and announced that we should not be on that rock; it was sacred. Hearing the fear in her voice I acquiesced and together we scrambled down. She announced that she had another attack of de-ja vu and recollected being there years earlier when a murder took place.

I didn’t tell her that I too had seen the same murder scene and by the clothing of the participants it was obvious the attack had occurred over 100 years ago.

The Storm

The Storm

Jack listened to the wind howling and heard the window frames rattling as the storm whipped itself into a frenzy. Outside all was not calm but Jack, in his ivory tower, did not worry. A illuminating even more the wondrous items Jack had collected all around him.

The magnolia walls of this luxurious dwelling were the result of a sustained buying up of sale price paint. As Jack remarked to the salesperson (Jack didn’t take much notice of people and would not have been able to say definitely if the person was male or female), “Magnolia goes with all décor.”

Crystal chandeliers sparkled in their reflected glory; the deep blue plush velvet chairs and chaise lounges scattered willy-nilly on the pure wool carpet (New Zealand made of course) highlighted Jack’s exceedingly grandiose tastes. Nothing was spared in time or money to present the façade Jack so delighted in.

Jack was a loner.

Jack did not like other folks cluttering up his important life. He employed women from the village at the foot of the mountain to maintain the tasteful standards he demanded. Not that he ever encountered this busy work team. They arrived at the dwelling in the clouds when Jack was asleep. The hour long trudge up the mountain- side the women workers did not mind. Nor did they care they never laid eyes on their boss. Except if their work was slovenly, and then they didn’t see him, just the letter of dismissal he left on the highly polished, lace covered mahogany table with its monstrosity of a flower arrangement (always white lilies!) that almost covered its immaculate surface. On the whole the women liked this job. No boss around and there was a certain satisfaction in knowing their hard toil kept the place like the palace it purported to be.

The fact it was in the dead of night when they wended their way up the narrow track was a bit of a worry. Not that they were at risk of attack; oh no! Jack kept his two guard dogs, Snap and Bite in a compound at the entrance gate. Legitimate visitors had a card, which they zapped, and this in turn locked the compound ensuring the dogs would, or could, not attack.

Jack liked to think that he was the master of his destiny: a destiny of living in splendour, being in charge of his life, and not having the hassle and bother of “other folks”. “Other folks” were what Jack detested. They were the people who turned order into chaos.

* * * * * * *

Fred cast an anxious eye out the cockpit of the Tiger Moth. Ahead he could see a storm and a storm was the last thing Fred wished to encounter. The black clouds crashed together and a flash of lightning zigzagged across the darkening sky.

For months Fred had worked towards this weekend. A gathering of pre-1980’s fixed wing planes had filled his dreams and thoughts night and day.

Fred was a fighter pilot during the war and had kept up an interest in aircraft. Flying a small plane in the elements showed a courage he considered pilots of the modern passenger aircraft did not possess. The constant use of electronic navigational aids did not encourage the pilot to keep a weather eye alert. The pressurised cabin was no match for the wind and rain which he encountered flying his baby.

Modern flying was so ho-hum. No different in reality to getting on a bus or a train. Except of course, one couldn’t get off until landing.

Fred in his twilight years remained an excellent advertisement of how life could be lived. ‘Live life to its fullest’ was his motto. And living life to its fullest was what Fred did every day. Flying his aeroplane, climbing large hills (mountains he had given up on when turning 75), swimming daily in the ocean: all these activities kept Fred young in body and mind.

Fred did not like the scenery outside the window. The clouds were coming ever closer. He had already hit a serious bump of turbulence and the plane had plummeted several feet downwards. Fred valued his life and had no intention of letting him, or his plane end up in untoward circumstances.

A gap in the clouds appeared, and Fred could make out bright lights below. Perhaps he should attempt an emergency landing whilst he had the chance. Even if the storm took a couple of hours to work itself out, Fred still had loads of time to complete his journey and in one piece as well.

Another flash of lightning and a loud crash of thunder rent the skies. The little Tiger Moth struggled to stay aloft. Fred was quickly becoming alarmed. His many years of flying had taught him one thing. Do not think you can control the weather.

Safety was the better part of valour. Fred took control of the situation and manipulated his little plane down through the break in the clouds and made his careful way towards the bright lights.

* * * * * *

The old oak trees which surrounded the never used tennis courts were creaking and groaning as the wind whipped around, leaves flying in all directions, a high branch showing a fissure of white where the wind threatened to break it off completely. A sudden gust lifted the roof off the changing pavilion and set off the burglar alarm with a horrendous shrilling.

Jack, slumbering fitfully in his spacious room grunted and opened his eyes. What was the noise he had heard? He slid out of bed, thrusting his feet into the carpet slippers on the mat, and shrugging into his dressing gown padded over to the window. Flashes of lightning lit the skies. Jack could see the mess outside and over by the tennis court in particular. He would have to go and investigate. There was no sense in allowing the whole property to be lifted up and whipped away during the night.

As Jack opened the door another noise gained his attention. A sudden light accompanied by a crashing noise almost sent him back into the safety of the house, but too much was at stake. Bother and damnation!! Jack’s patience were at their lowest in the wee small hours of the morning and to be outside in a storm at that ridiculous hour irked him even more.

He stomped over the lawn, narrowly missing treading on the herbaceous border that tonight looked like a disaster area. All was in darkness again. The lightning seemed to have moved towards the hills and large raindrops plopped onto Jack’s nose. This was becoming quite intolerable!

“Help.” A faint cry attracted Jack’s attention. “Help, help me please.”

Jack listened. Surely those silly women hadn’t walked the narrow path in such a storm to clean his house? It didn’t sound like a woman’s voice, though to be honest Jack had not heard many voices for years.

“Help.” There it was again. It sounded near by. Jack gave himself a mental ticking off. He should have brought a torch. There he was, outside in the rain which by now was falling steadily, no torch, and strange sounds coming from the direction of the tennis court. Nothing for it, he decided but go and take a look. For all he knew the noise could have come from someone on his property with criminal intent. That thought was enough to energise him. He strode purposely towards the tennis courts, his slippers becoming wetter by the moment, and his pyjama trousers legs flapping damply about his ankles.

In the half-light Jack could make out something suspended in the tree that was leaning precariously under the strength of the storm. “Help!” The sound was stronger now and very near. “Help me please.”

Jack peered into the gloom. That thing in the trees was moving. Was it? It couldn’t be? It was…. it was a parachute, and dangling in the lower branches Jack made out the shape of a man. A man calling for help.

Jack was startled. He did not want to see people. He did not want to know about people needing help: people who might enter his home whilst he was there. That meant conversation, and Jack had left conversation way behind, many years ago. Jack cursed inwardly.

“Can you get me down from this confounded tree?” the cry was distinct and urgent. “I think I have a broken ankle.”

Jack thought. A broken ankle? That meant he would have to carry the man to the house, and call for medical attention. But, hang on; the weather was too rough for a doctor to come up tonight. Trees may have covered the track further down, and Jack could see that this rescue attempt was over to him.

Jack hurried over. Above him hung Fred, captured by his parachute harness, in the fork of the oak tree. “Where was the ladder?” Jack had to think back to where he had noticed it last. He recollected the gardener had not long ago trimmed the high hedge that separated the lawn from the vegetable patch, and the ladder had been in use to trim along the top. Jack stepped gingerly across the turf and grabbed the ladder that was standing against the wall of the garden shed.

“Won’t be a tick,” he called. He carried the ladder over to the oak, set it up as best he could in the conditions, and carefully positioned himself to give the assistance to the injured Fred who managed to get enough traction to lift him-self off the tree fork and tumbled the short distance to the ground, moaning as he landed on the grass. “Thank you squire,” Fred said. “You have saved my life.”

“How did you arrive here?” asked Jack, his voice very quiet and scratchy after years of not being involved in conversation.

Fred thought. “I flew in,” he replied, trying to make light of the situation.

“Flew in!” Jack retorted. “Where is your ‘plane then?”

Fred shook his head ruefully and replied,” My plane sir, crash-landed in the other field, and I managed to eject before the impact. You must stay clear as it may burst into flames.”

Jack hoped not, but felt that the ‘plane had been on the ground too long for that eventuality anyway.

He hurried as fast as the dim light and the now fierce storm conditions allowed back to the garden shed where he managed to find not only a torch with good batteries, but also some twine. The twine he used to tie Fred onto the ladder, and somehow he dragged the ladder, and Fred, back to the house. Helping Fred indoors meant Jack having to touch the man. Jack had not touched anyone for over 20 years.

“Lean on my shoulder can’t you?” Jack muttered quietly. It was a huge responsibility to have placed on him. Jack could feel a tight band around his chest and he knew he was nervous of this situation. Fred leant gratefully against Jack’s arm and together they maneuvered themselves into the front room where Fred slumped onto the sofa. Jack eased off Fred’s boot and took a look at the ankle. It didn’t appear to be broken, just badly bruised and swollen. Carefully Fred attempted to move his foot and found he could. He raised a twisted smile as he remarked, “It seems the ankle isn’t broken. I will be able to leave once this storm abates.”

Jack’s careful upbringing had installed in him the necessity of hospitality and he asked Fred if he preferred tea or coffee. Fred replied, “Tea would be welcome, thank you.”

Jack hurried into the kitchen and quickly found the electric jug that he filled from the tap. Whilst the jug was boiling he placed two cups on a tray, and fished in the cupboards until he found the biscuits he knew to be somewhere.

Jack was more concerned how they were going to fill in these early morning hours. He wondered if Fred could play cards, or chess maybe, or even checkers. It had been many years since Jack had played any of them but now he felt an urgency to talk, to spend time with his fellow man. “Would you like to play cards?” Jack asked of Fred. Fred considered this a moment before replying, “I don’t suppose you have a chess set have you? I would love to have a game of chess. It is years since I have had a game.”

Jack walked over the passage to the library and returned carrying the chess set which sat on the table, but was never used. They laid out the pieces, drank their tea and ate their biscuits and all the time Jack felt himself softening. How nice it was to have company. Fred regaled Jack with his exploits in his aeroplane and Jack listened with envy. “It’s a pity my plane is lying in your field though,” Fred said. I don’t think I will be flying in it for some time. Parts are difficult to come by you know.”

Jack smiled. His face lit up as he remembered the Tiger Moth he had stored in a hangar on another part of the property.

“Fred,” he said, “I think this was our lucky day!”

Fred stared. How could anyone call this a lucky day! It was so unlucky. He had been caught in a storm, his plane, his pride and joy, had crashed landed, and he had ended up upside down in a tree with a badly swollen and bruised ankle. Lucky! Jack had to be crazy to even think that!

“Seriously,” Jack smiled, “this is your lucky day. In another field of mine I have a hangar and in that hangar is a Tiger Moth. Now, if you feel you can fly it then how about we both go to this air pageant? Listen, the storm is abating, and I know from past storms that the day will dawn bright and clear.”

Fred was astounded. This whole episode was turning out much better than he could ever have wished. He looked down at his ankle and while it was turning a brilliant purple-yellow he could see that the swelling was already subsiding. The drink had warmed him, the biscuits had brought back his energy, and this Jack guy was turning into an all right sort of chap.

“Right,” said Fred, “we will do that. Any more tea in that pot?”

Joe's Bike

Many years ago in the wilds of a northern country lived a young boy whose one dream was to own a bike. Every day he listened to the tramping of clogs on their way to the mines and determined that when his time came to enter the wide world of earning a living he would at least own a bike.

His favourite subject at school was not the English language. He much preferred the dialect he had grown up with … and understood. Songs were written and sung in that dialect. Music hall jokes were made in that dialect. For him it was normal. He had many interests: leg pulling, setting his classmates up for a joke, and eventually he became proficient at fixing and repairing all types of things; the smoothing iron, mending the big pot hanging over the open fire with a rivet, mending punctures on his Dad’s pushbike, hammering protectors into winter boots to give them a longer life, and a myriad of other tasks of which young folks of today have no comprehension. He left school and started working.

Long hours of hard labour determined the young lad that he would improve himself, and make a mark on the world.

One day as he was trudging home from a cold, wearisome day he spied a bicycle shop, and out the front, all-shining with its classy paintwork stood his prize. A bike! He raced home and found the tin, which he kept hidden on the top of the wardrobe, and tipped it onto the counterpane. With a long sigh he carefully counted the pennies, but knew deep down inside that there were not enough coppers to buy a bike. That bike was going to be his to own - of that he had no doubt. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and thought. A few extra shillings a week would come in extremely handy.

Looking out the window he noticed old Mr Black down at his allotment. Mr Black was toiling in the evening sun in the rows of beans and carrots that grew prolifically in the well-fertilized garden. Away in the far corner, near the blackcurrant and gooseberry bushes Joe could see the compost heap onto which Mr Black tossed all his kitchen leftovers, along with any stray weed that dared show its face amongst his prize vegetables. As Joe sat he became aware that Mr Black was getting on in years – he hadn’t noticed that before. An idea popped into Joe’s able mind. Would Mr Black let him take over some of the hard work, and in the process he might earn the odd bob or two.

“No time like the present,” he thought as he headed out the back door and through the gap in the fence. “Good even’n’ Sir,” Joe called. “Lovely even’n’ isn’t it?”

“Hello there young Joe,” Mr Black smiled a greeting. “What’s a young lad like you doing out here when you could be down on the green chatting up the lassies.”

“I was wondering if you would like a hand with the allotment.” Mr Black considered this for a moment. Not every day did someone offer to help him out and it needed time to sink in.

“That’s mighty kind of you Joe,” replied Mr Black. You can begin by digging over that rough patch beyond those couple of cabbages. I need another area cleared for some winter caulis.”

Joe wondered whether he should mention the little matter of payment, but decided against it … no sense in pushing it too hard and coming straight out and asking for money as that was not the done thing in his home. Joe whistled while he worked. He rather liked being out in the dusk, with no worries at all. “Strange,” he thought, “but I like this gardening lark.” Payment was no longer that important, though he still coveted the idea of owning that bike.

When the patch was dug over, the biggest weeds tossed on the compost heap, and the soil looking ready for transplanting the cauliflower plants which had been raised in the potting shed near the pear tree, Mr Black leaned on his spade and turned to Joe. “Joe lad,” he said, “you have been a great help to me.” You must take some carrots and a cabbage home to your Ma. “

Joe hadn’t thought of this eventuality but gratefully accepted the offer. This would be a welcome addition to the menu at home. The carrots would brighten tomorrow’s meal of tripe and onions, though he rather hoped his mother would not cook the cabbage as well. Onions and cabbage, as he knew, were a bad combination.

Helping Mr Black became an almost nightly occurrence and Joe gave up all thought of asking for payment. The pleasure of just gardening and helping the elderly gentleman, plus learning the tips and knowledge was more than recompense.

The weeks slid by.

One evening a couple of months later Joe headed down the back yard, through the gap in the fence and towards the allotments. Pushing open the gate he thought it strange that Mr Black wasn’t there. They had made prior arrangements and tonight was to be the night Mr Black had set aside to show Joe the intricacies of potting up. Joe felt uneasy. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he knew that something was seriously wrong. Near the blackcurrant bushes and just beyond the prize cauliflower Joe could see Mr Black’s legs sprawled on the ground. Joe raced over. Mr Black lay there very still, so very quiet. Joe knew instantly that Mr Black had died in his favourite place, doing what he loved best. Joe walked sadly home to tell his parents who in turn informed Mr Black’s family.

Six months later a letter came in the mail for Joe. It was official looking with a seal on the back. Joe wondered what it was about and upon opening it he was astounded to see a solicitors’ cheque for ten pounds. A fortune! Joe did not consider he deserved such a sum for had he not learned so much from Mr Black. His love of gardening would stay with him forever and he would always have Mr Black to thank for that.

The next morning Joe woke with an idea in his head. Leaving the house a little earlier than needed, he made a detour past the bicycle shop. There, just inside the door, stood the bicycle he had coveted all those many months ago, the bicycle which he had almost forgotten about whilst gardening with Mr Black. That bike was going to be his. He had more than enough to buy it, and tonight, on his way home from work he would stop off and make his purchase.

Joe bought that bike and his lifelong love of cycles and motors began. His prized purchase of latter years was a motorbike. He had obtained his wish, and in the process had gained the hobby of gardening, a love he sustained for a lifetime.

A Dream?

“Cuthbert Aldwin Pendlebury, purveyor and assessor of human frailties at your service. Cap in hand, at your command!”

I laughed self-consciously at my attempt at humour, peering around in the hope no one had heard the little aside. Not that anyone was around. I opened my office one week ago, and in the intervening period no enquiries had been made for my services.

I spent the past twenty years wandering the state, fruit picking in the south, assisting with the grain harvest in the mid-west, and when in a seldom state of wealth I fossicked around the mullocks for the elusive gold that had been overlooked. My spirit was strong, my body slowly bending under the weight of accumulated years. Considering myself a student of human nature a new career path in private investigating appeared a suitable alternative, offering a solid base from which to operate. The thought that no one needed my services had never entered my reckoning.

I looked around my office, a small dingy back room in the small dingy house I purchased from meagre savings, in a suburb that had seen better days. A large board attached to the wooden gate, which could have done with a lick of fresh white paint, proclaimed to the world the services offered, if the customer cared to wander down a narrow concrete footpath ducking and diving to avoid the overhanging branches of the bottlebrush that made a dash of red against the worn out cream fibro walls and fence. A second hand desk, which I had stripped and re-varnished, stood near the rear wall, a plush-red office chair placed carefully over the worn patch in the donkey-brown shag-pile carpet. The dark beige walls made a dismal background for the tatty posters of far away exotic destinations attached to the paintwork with double-sided tape. In fact, now that I take the scene in with an unbiased eye, it slowly dawns that this is not the existence I desired. No clients, not even a telephone enquiry, a second rate house in a third rate area, and the chances of a job that would pay the electricity, little alone pay me a basic wage, were non existent. The telephone chat I had almost perfected sounded as cheap as the surroundings.

Making an instant decision I telephoned the real estate office, offering the residence up for rent, thus setting in place a process whereby I could be my own man in an environment where I felt at home. The constrictions imposed by this physically enclosed city-block, and the compressing of my psyche in the emotional backwater, no longer provided the necessary enticement to while away my days in complete boredom.

* * * * * *

As I look back it is obvious that my aspirations to enter the world of investigation were nothing more than dreams. The blueprint laid down for me read differently. The place I belonged was the wide-open spaces … unfettered by timetables and deadlines. Ahead the tarsealed road promised a new beginning, a journey into the future, where only the elements provided testing grounds.

Following a sudden inclination I flicked on the turn indicators, checked in the rear vision mirror for approaching traffic, and finding the view clear, executed a sharp turn right to take me away from the busy highway towards the relative calm of the midlands.

Lunchtime drew near; the day was warm bordering on hot; a break was essential. A lay-by offering shady respite appeared around the corner, tall river gums casting shadows over the rest area. Where better to eat the sandwiches I had quickly prepared? Ham, cheese, and tomato on whole-meal bread, washed down with remnants of a flask of tea. I leaned back in the seat, rested my head on the headrest, and drowsily listened to the hum of the bees working the flowers on the gums. Somewhere in the distant a crow ark-ark-arked his noisy cry as he fed on the remains of the road-killed kangaroo.

Had I slept? The sun’s rays now cast lazy shadows over the car, time to get on the move again. Hurriedly filling my water bottle from the nearby tap I eased out onto the roadway that wended its way between wattle and gum trees reaching an open farming area where oranges and mandarins grew side-by-side with luscious mangoes, and a prolific market garden with rows of pumpkins, sweet potato, and a tall strange variety of beans stood to attention. The sight of such fresh abundance proved impossible to pass by; I pulled into a roadside stall, chose a bag of sweet tasting, juicy oranges, and after dropping gold coins into the container provided, continued on my way.

Pzzzzzzzzt. Oh damn! I knew that sound of old. A flat tyre!

The Search

“It was odd how well he knew me”, muttered Joe as he pulled the faded khaki cap low over his eyes and hurried from the dimly-lit bar, pausing momentarily at the door to check he wasn’t being followed. His heart rate slowed, and the fine veil of perspiration that covered his brow evaporated by the time he reached his vehicle.

Behind the bar of ‘The Five Star’ Lucinda was laughing as she poured a Scotch, sliding it along to the two black leather-clad motorcyclists leaning nonchalantly on the polished oak counter.

“Strange chap that?” Lucinda tossed the words into the smoky atmosphere and without waiting for a reply, turned her attention towards the couple who had just walked in.

Mike and Bobby tipped back their drinks. After riding several hundred miles across barren countryside, the steep hills offering only limited protection from the howling winds that picked up debris and hurtled it meters from where it had been originally tossed from car windows, they were pleased to stretch out and relax. It had been a long day and a decent meal was next on the agenda.

“Lucinda”, called Mike. “What’s the food like in this place?”

Lucinda took the menu across and recommended the steak, with mushrooms and eggs. Mike and Bobby ordered and wandered over to a table near the window. Outside, streetlights cast a muted golden glow onto the pavement and cars, their headlights flashing like torches, sped by. Mike brought a faded photo from his wallet and after wiping the table with his sleeve, carefully laid the crinkled black and white picture out in front of them pressing out the worst of the creases.

“Bobby, do you reckon we will ever find him?” Mike asked, in an anxious voice.

“Of course Mike”, replied Bobby. “It’s a dead cert! There must be someone who knows the old man, even if it has been twenty years since he left.”

“You know what I reckon?” said Mike. He continued, “I reckon it was that old boy with that funny cap. He had a vague familiarity.”

Bobby looked doubtful. That old guy shuffled along and looked scared of the world. Surely that couldn’t be him! But this was Mike’s mission, so he would play along.

“Ya reckon?” he asked. “I don’t think you’re right! That guy was old. He must be seventy if a day! The chap in this photo won’t be more than 50.”

“Yeah” replied Mike, but I am not sure. Looks can be deceiving. Hey Lucinda”, he roared, “Who was that old guy in here before? The one we were asking where Grove Place is?”

Lucinda thought long before she replied that the old guy was Joe Wilson who came into town weekly to buy groceries and a few farming supplies. “He’s not such a bad old chap”, she said, “just a bit of a recluse. And by the way, I don’t know of a farm called Grove Place around here. I only know of The Willow Grove. Are you sure you are in the right area?”

“Joe Wilson?” Mike Wilson whispered the name. “Bobby we have found him! We have found my Dad! No wonder I found him easy to talk with! He’s my Dad!

The Egg

Beyond the water eroded exterior lay another land, another world; a new beginning and as the yellow centre of the universe diminished the translucent white of the albumen disappeared.

For Doni time was running out. As rapid growth cramped his space, his source of nourishment became more precarious by the hour. Doni wondered if he should give serious consideration to moving his head quarters somewhere more spacious.

From the edge of his nose a spur was growing. Imaging a crowbar in every shape and form, Doni knew instinctively this new development symbolised his future. No one had informed him the correct usage of the ugly protrusion that appeared overnight. Living a short life in a tiny universe, which was the only home he knew, had been a period of dramatic development. A humble black dot that was his beginning changed hourly, daily, until he was barely recognisable from that simple single cell.

Frustration teemed with an acute feeling of claustrophobia filled Doni's mind and body. He was trapped. He had to escape before this universe crushed him into oblivion. Banging on walls achieved exactly nothing. Crying was not in his repertoire. Hunger drove him on as an overwhelming urge to leave this place pounded in his mind.

Lying on his back Doni lurched his head upwards ... outwards. The rocky exterior, worn smooth by aeons of ocean flow of the ebbing and surging tide, started to crack. With energy hitherto unknown, Doni directed a massive onslaught at the wall. He pulled the spur back. He lunged it outward. Over and over he repeated the dance.

Music reverberated through his head. One, two, three, lunge; one, two, three, strike; one, two, three rest; one two three lunge... A jagged crack opened up. Doni, his strength charged with ambition, powered all his effort into this, the Escape for Life. Lunge, strike, rest. Lunge, strike, rest.

A trickle of salt water dribbled into the universe that had been Doni’s home for a lifetime. White foam curled around his feet. Doni stretched out ... his legs broke free... the case split open leaving him exposed to another world.
Beyond lay the pounding surf. All around the warmth of the golden sand drifted its welcome; crabs and sand hoppers hurried to investigate. Doni had arrived in another world. There was no hard shell to protect him, no yellow inner glow to nourish him; instead he had Freedom.

My Time in Cue ~ Ends

Teasing

Horses sweat, plants transpire, and people perspire. Those words of wisdom were reiterated by the adults of my childhood … parents and teachers intent on instilling the correct usage of the English language into my young brain. My gray matter absorbed the information enabling me to correctly answer a Biology question at exam time. One rebellious corner of my mind allows me to still blithely comment, "I am sweating!"

Today that phrase is apt. Minute droplets of perspiration cling to my arms. Had I looked at them under a microscope I may think I am looking at rain clinging to a recently cleaned window. The droplets converge as new-born streams joining with other streams to trickle down to become a river that plunges, as a waterfall, down my forehead, spreading across the platform of my face, narrowing its passage over my chin, and before I have time to grab tissues, or a towel, it wends its way into the gorge beneath my shirt. Wiping up the perspiration is futile. As quickly as I mop, another rivulet forms.

Without warning a wind whistles from nowhere swirling mini dust storms before subsiding as quickly as it began. The air is cooler; an eerie calmness prevails.

The sky, which earlier in the day was wall-to-wall, or rather horizon-to-horizon blue carpet now sports a covering of white fluffy mats … sheepskins in the sky. Beyond the caravan park, its ablution block once upon a time the local jail, red dust rises to blur the image of sky, only to race towards the main highway north like a mist rolling in from the ocean. It sweeps down the highway driven by a lone gust of wind that rattles the loose sheet of roofing iron outside my balcony door. Again the wind raises its voice … shaking trees, the flags flying from their respective poles dancing the tango with vigour, as yet another cloud of dust swirls, white this time from the abandoned gold diggings on the outskirts of town.

Cars creep cautiously along the ribbon of highway, their lights on dim to make their presence known to other motorists.

As waves crash on distant shores rhythmically under the baton of a hidden conductor, so the wind rises and falls, its chorus repetitious, its verses as yet undefined. An empty Coke can rattles and rolls its lonely way along the street. The crows that spent half the morning perched on a high vantage point waiting for a suitable moment to swoop and raid the dogs' dishes, cluster in small groups in the shelter of the band rotunda …their flying time under suspension for the afternoon.

Later … hours later … the setting sun illuminates the edges of the cloud that have diminished leaving a larger carpet of blue tinged with gold as the sun sinks to the west. In the distance a veil of rain drifts downwards, but it appears to evaporate before reaching ground level, while north behind the location of the mini dust storm, a rainbow adds a glorious splash of colour. Once again the rain has snubbed us … maybe during the cool night hours it will come calling as a welcome guest.

But hark! Darkness cocoons the town in a blanket until a display of forked lightning pierces the now black ceiling lighting the sky like a New Year's fireworks celebration. Thunder rumbles breaking the silence. Slowly the trees bend to a gentle breeze that increases before easing completely. Rain falls its drop echoing on the tin roof. Five minutes later the rain is over.

Tomorrow?

My Time is Cue is over.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 33

Summer Heat

It's hot! The thermometer on the outside of my balcony door read 43 degrees in mid-afternoon. Now, a couple of hours later, it has dropped … by 2 degrees.

In contrast to this time last year I feel it is at least seven degrees warmer, though this does not necessarily qualify as being caused by global warming. By all accounts these early hot temperatures point towards a cyclone season, and indeed over east, off the north-eastern coast cyclone Guba is building in force. It will not affect us here in the west.

It wasn't until recent years we heard about the El Nino and La Nina effect, but it is these opposing weather symptoms that create our varying weather patterns. The come and go.

Our air-conditioning unit in the kitchen is awaiting a piece of copper pipe … it arrived in the post this morning, but our handy men have gone north … for the day. Our air conditioning is on hold. In the meantime our evening cook is hot and bothered, and with just cause. With any luck it will be in full working order tomorrow!

I sat outside drying my hair and watched the fluffy white clouds moving around the sky like a dancer waltzing around the dance floor for the final dance. The slithered around the blue yonder, some turned gray and on the far outskirts of town I could see the rain falling. If this were a city that rain would still be in the far outskirts.

In my room the air con is rattling as it circulates cool air. It is pleasant and it is where I cheerfully spend my spare time. The balcony loses it attraction after quarter of an hour.

Earlier I headed to the bathroom to shower and wash my hair. The tile floor was warm to walk on and there was no need to run hot water as the cold tap ran warm. This phenomenon occurred last year … after Christmas. This year is definitely hotter, and while I am aware cyclones cause damage to homes and the environment, I secretly hope that one will affect us … we are far enough inland not to be bothered by the extremes. I have been informed should a cyclone hit the coastal area we can expect rain and lots of it. The highways are, infrequently, rendered impassable as surface water drains away slowly. Perhaps the lake will fill? Perhaps the fish that live in the lake mud, awaiting water in which to swim, will hatch and we will see fishing as a pastime. Perhaps … perhaps.

It all depends on Mother Nature, and she is unpredictable. We cannot foretell exactly which way she will turn. It is but a waiting game.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 32

Flutter By

Two nights ago a moth fluttered around my light. It was persistent in its attempt to become amorous with the light, flying nearer and nearer, then in an almost flirtatious manner alighted on the opposite wall as if to say, "Light, chase me!" The light didn't reply. Again and again the moth crept nearer only to retreat. I became a tad annoyed. I was trying to read a book and a moth fluttering around my hair was a hindrance to becoming absorbed in the story line. Switching off the light I scrambled out of bed and opened the door in the hope that the moth would take a hint and vacate my space. That moth was dumb. He flew around and around the darkened space. More drastic action was required! I shut the door, firmly, switched the light back on, found a magazine that I rolled up and swished it suddenly onto the moth capturing it within the magazine pages, and with a quick flick I deposited it outside … back to my book.

The following night I had a visit from it's twin! As large as a 20cent piece, dark murky grayish brown, with white markings on its wings, as similar as two peas in a pod to the intruder of the previous night, this moth performed an aerial swoop of my room as if he was looking for his brother. This time I wasted not a moment, but grabbed my shower cap from behind the door, deftly encompassed the night flier, before tipping it out into the corridor. Those little incidents gave me cause to wonder why is it that moths, creatures of the night, and butterflies, their first cousins who prefer sunlight, evoke different reactions. We gaze in wonderment at the beautiful markings and brilliant hues of a butterfly, yet show little interest in the moth.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 31

Mosquitoes

Over the past two or three weeks the mosquitoes have hatched and in the evening stillness their buzzing advertises their presence, their unwelcome presence, in my room. I swipe my hand in the direction of the invading unwelcome bloodsucker. I invariably miss and two seconds later a bite on my arm announce that they have struck. If it finished there all might be well … but no … I swell up and itch and the unsightly red blotch does nothing to my appearance.

Last weekend they struck in the dead of night. In the morning my eye was swollen, and upon glancing in the mirror thought I had been in a war. Red blotches in the corner of my eye, another on my cheek, and all around was unsightly swelling. I peered in the early morning light and tried not to touch. In the dining room I imagined everyone was staring and wondering if I would come up with the old excuse as to the swelling, "Oh, I just walked into a door". Sad fact is I hadn't. I pretended nothing was wrong … that way I needed make no excuses or offer any reason.

We had a few nights of cooler weather and winds sprung up rattling the door and threatening to lift the roofing iron on the balcony roof. The clanging noise may have helped keep the mosquitoes at bay, or more likely, it was too cold and windy. My face cleared up … they took three days to disappear and the vague itching persisted another day. I almost forgot about mosquitoes.

Until … last night! The army invaded again, stealthily this time. They did not make the buzzing sound or if they did I was sound asleep. I woke this morning and there on my arm were the telltale red blotches accompanied by that old familiar itch. Tonight I will once again spray my door surrounds with fly spray, deadly to insect fly spray!

This hotel is almost a century old and it has gaps at the bottom of the door … gaps that could let in ants if I kept food lying around. I am wise; I use a refrigerator. In cold windy winters evenings the gaps let in cold air, and in the height of summer dry hot air from the desert drifts in making the air conditioner work twice as hard. I have sprayed once before and if it wasn't the appearance of colder nights that made the mosquitoes hibernate, then it worked.

Cue does have an army to fight the onslaught of the mosquito in the shape of a small truck that drives around the streets on dusk spraying in its wake a cloud of kerosene impregnated smoke that creeps into any mosquito breeding homes, and which is supposed to obliterate these pesky pests.

The first time I heard this 'exterminator truck' I thought a small single-winged airplane was circling the town in an effort to find a suitable landing place. We do have an airport on the outskirts, but a vivid imagination working over time envisioned a serious medical emergency necessitating an immediate touchdown as near to the scene as possible. I remember hurrying to the window and in the twilight I thought there was a fire, so dense was the smoke. I peered and noticed the smoke moved. There were no flames … there was no fire! Bushfires are commonplace in Australia, and thankfully I have never seen one, nor do I ever want to. Smoke billowing from behind a small white truck was a novelty, and once the purpose was explained I relaxed. That truck toured the town weekly last mosquito season. I hope it does it job a little better this season! I do not like the raised red blotches and the itching that is part and parcel of a mosquito bite.

Of course I could spray my bare skin with a spray that keeps insects away. Have you ever smelt that spray? It stinks! People who spray their bare skin with that particular insect repellent smell not nice. I think I will keep faith with the spray truck and in a positive frame of mind will knows that the mosquito problem will be reduced, or completely stopped within a week or two.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 30

Citrus Tang

It’s been a citrus couple of days. For a moment imagine me wandering through a citrus grove. [Now isn't grove a wonderful word … so close to grope, which is not exactly a wonderful word or its connotations are not wonderful, and glove, which conjures up a picture of a cold wintry day, one's breath spilling from mouth and nose like steam from a kettle, except steam is hot, and the breath instantly turns cold.] I have never wandered in a citrus grove. I have leaned over a boundary fence and accidentally knocked some luscious ripe lemons onto my side and thus, with a clear conscience turning away from the possibility of stolen fruit, I have picked them up for culinary purposes. I have seen orange trees growing in a neighbourhood, but I have never wandered in a citrus grove.

Some time ago several kilograms of limes were ordered. We do not know why as there is really little one can make from several kilograms of limes. They sat in a cardboard box high in the cool room. The catering had long been completed and not one lime was used. Since then the person who ordered those limes has departed from his employment at this establishment.

We found the limes one day. I picked one up and examined it, having only ever seen pictures of limes. They varied in colour from a deep dark lime green to a lime green such as was the fashion colour many moons ago [lime green, shocking pink, and burnt orange … one day those colours will return … perhaps under another name, but basically still the same colours].

When I discovered Roses Lime Marmalade I thought it the most wonderful marmalade ever made. Only 'Roses' … no other brand came a close second. As winter cut cold and harsh into the bones the light at the end of the tunnel appeared in the shape of Roses Lime Marmalade. Even the jars were distinctive! I saved those jars and used them for storing coffee and other stores. A row of Roses Lime jars with a kaleidoscope of ingredients transformed what would have been a mundane kitchen shelf into something almost reaching exceptional. [Remember that jars can, of their own free will, fall from shelves and break … these were at least cheap and easily replaced!]

The other day we discovered, or remembered, the limes again. We looked. A discussion took place. How to use them up before they passed their use-by date, made obvious by brown marks appearing on the surface. Two were added to the evening meal, unnoticed by diners, while the rest lay less than resplendent in their cardboard box high on the coolroom shelf. Yesterday another discussion occurred. It was decided … make lime marmalade. Instantly the taste of Roses Lime Marmalade gripped my taste buds. I volunteered to make the marmalade. Truth be told, if I didn't no one else would!

After cooking breakfast I settled in the dining room with the cardboard box of limes, some with telltale brown markings on the skin that indicated time was of the essence if we were to salvage these limes. I set the box on my right-hand side, first rolling back the tablecloth.

After all if I cut up limes, washing tablecloths would fall down the list of needs-to-be-done. Morning TV blared in the corner … weather and news, gossip from Hollywood, advertising, a little chat amongst the announcers, weather and news, gossip etc.

To my left I placed a small plate … for the rubbishy parts … those little brown marks. Directly in front I set down a plastic cutting board judicially placed on a larger tray, in case of excessive juice. In my hand, dangerously, I held a sharp black-handled steak knife. For decades I have found steak knives to be the best blades for cutting all types of materials … fruit, plastic binding on cardboard cartons, carrots and cauliflower, and for peeling cooked potatoes for a salad, and slicing unsavoury pieces from food. Not necessarily unsavoury because of age, more likely unsavoury because they were items I did not like.

I cut and sliced, sliced and cut. Slivers of lime covered the board. I tipped them into a large bowl. Thank goodness for weather and news, gossip from Hollywood, advertising, and a little chat amongst the announcers! My sanity may have otherwise been seriously challenged. Almost two kilograms of limes I cut and sliced. My arm ached and my shoulder was a smidgen from contracting RSI. There were two limes left in the box. I discarded them … already the brown colouration of the skin made them unsavoury in appearance. Two tossed out would not unbalance the budget. I measured water and poured it over the cut and finely sliced limes, and topped the whole shebang with a clean tea towel, clamping that in place with a tray before placing it in the corner of the storeroom. [Soak overnight the recipe stated.]

This morning I fed the hungry, and with a great burst of early morning enthusiasm tipped the cut and finely sliced limes, along with the covering water, into a large pot, placed them on the stove and lit the gas. Boil for one hour or until skins are soft, read the recipe. I boiled and a wonderful citrus aroma filled the kitchen and drifted out to the dining room. The hour passed quickly. I tested the skins and they were soft. Now it was time to measure the sugar into the pot, stir until the mix came to the boil, and wait until it jelled. In twenty minutes the lime marmalade was ready for bottling.

Sadly I had no Roses Lime Marmalade jars available. We did have some large, very large, glass jars, with lids, that had once held gherkins. I had saved these for months in the sure and certain knowledge that one-day they would come in handy. Two were already in daily use … as containers for the ice cream mix for the soft-serve ice cream. I warmed the jars, waited a short time for the marmalade to cool, and proudly poured the lime marmalade into the jars. They are now stored on a high shelf in the cool-room … except for a liberal serving ladled into a container for breakfast toast.

To while away the cooking time I imagined a walk through a citrus grove. Blue skies, the glowing orange, lemon and lime green of oranges, lemons and limes, incandescent in their bed of shimmering deep green leaves and emitting an aroma designed to tempt the senses … every time we spread the lime marmalade onto our morning toast a little journey into a citrus grove will be ours … if we so wish.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 29

Bottlebrush and Animals

It is spring … we had a substantial fall of rain on Monday with an equally substantial drop in temperatures that necessitated my placing the inner back into my duvet, commonly known as a doona here in W.A. Why a doona? I don't know. This part of the world has some strange words … doona for duvet; donga for transportable rooms, Blue for a redhead, and other colloquialisms that escape my mind at the moment.

The rain was welcome. By Wednesday, when all trace had evaporated, the air was clear and the countryside smelt fresh and clean. Birds found puddles for drinking fountains and the three little rabbits that appear to live beneath the old bank on the corner nibbled on the green grass growing amongst the splits in the footpath. Several weeks ago I noticed two rabbits attempting to jaywalk to the shop. Huge road trains rumble by, but these bobtail bunnies, using road sense, and common sense, traversed the dangerous highway with ease. Now there are three little rabbits.

I was out the other day and began a conversation with schoolboys who were hungrily eyeing the rabbits. The suggestion that they feed them up with a little bread for a few weeks was rewarded with a knowing wink. I felt no guilt. Two rabbits six weeks ago can increase to untold numbers by Christmas, and out there beyond the black stump is a rabbit proof fence. Whether we are on the right side or the wrong side of that fence is debatable. A photo of little bunnies has not been taken as they scampered to hide … I wonder if they understood the words 'pan' and 'rabbit stew'?

At this time of year the native Bottlebrush is in all its full glory. Eight Bottlebrush trees grace our main street and all are in magnificent bloom. Brilliant red flowers catch the eye. If I recollect correctly this years flowers are considerably bigger and better than those of last year. What that foretells I am not sure, but there is bound to be some folklore associated with it.

The swallows are once again nesting, and hatching their young, in the rafters of the balcony of the hotel. Our two visiting dogs, Rusty and Sally [Sally Anne when she is naughty] delight in running along the balcony, their feet pitter-pattering as they anticipate a little game. During the night these little dogs share the room with their masters and the two resident Blue Heelers climb the stairs to sleep on guard. In the early morning I coax them back downstairs and outside, but once the canine visitors are sent outdoors, via the fire escape, they all delight in chasing the crows watching from the beer garden roof. I place the kitchen scraps in two bowls near the beer garden. Dogs have first choice, but the moment their backs are turned the crows help themselves.

Wombat, the 'senior dog' here oversees all food disposal! He is first. He has second choice … and third choice as well. Should he condescend to let another dog approach the bowl it is on his terms, which means he can growl and chase them away as he sees fit. And he often sees fit! I have been at the clothesline hanging out tablecloths when Wombat, who not five seconds earlier had chased [with vehemence] one of his kennel mates away, will bring a bone … with meat … to me, drop it at my feet, and expect me to pick it up and be grateful. He is presenting a gift! Which goes to show that he has me higher in his pecking order than the other dogs. Then again, he knows the hand that feeds him! Our Wombat is not silly. It could truthfully be said he is greedy and selfish and bossy … but he is also lovable, which is a redeeming feature.

Bear, the other Blue Heeler is content to wait. Somewhere in his past he has been unkindly treated and it is sad to watch him cower at any sign of confrontation, be it canine or human. He is the one who sleeps outside my door, and who, I like to think, would stand guard should trouble arise. Though that is one test I hope never arises.

Between four dogs, crows that hover, swallows that nest and hatch, and the spring flowering of the Bottlebrush, there is plenty to occupy ones senses. Soon the weather will warm up and we will seek the coolness of our rooms and the air con. Until then … spring is a-blooming fair.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 28

Wire-less

At a recent meeting of the local Shire it was decided to do away with the overhead electricity wires that hog the skyline. At first I thought, 'Good, about time', but hadn't really considered how much blight on the landscape they were.

We get used to such blights. They become part and parcel of our daily lives. We find it easy to ignore their presence … until we stop and take a close look. I did just that. I picked up the camera and shot random shots. Everywhere the electricity lines were obvious. I have taken hundreds of photos of this town and carefully try to avoid placing the wires in the viewfinder as I consider them to be intrusive in an Outback landscape.

We have crows that live in the trees … that raid the dog food in our backyard, and perch, full of cheek, on the overhead wires. They will have to find a new perch! One persistent crow has begun sitting on the balcony rail. Should he encourage his feathered friends and relatives to do likewise I will need to strategize a plan to deter them! A row of crows would present an unwelcome appearance to prospective guests.

We are lucky that such a small remote town does actually have electricity. Cue’s little power plant is situated on the outskirts of town. The extreme distances involved makes it virtually impossible, and certainly impracticable and expensive, to connect to the national grid. I guess the fact that we do have electricity and do not have to rely on individual generators makes it easier to ignore the ugliness of the wires. Why we need so many criss-crossing every streetscape is beyond me. Their layout appears indiscriminate and perhaps it grew, like Topsy, as the need for electrical connections grew.

From all accounts the placing underground of electricity wires should take place in the next financial year. No doubt our streets will be dug up. That could well be a good thing for this hotel … as the workmen will need somewhere to stay. Everyone wins! The town is instantly beautified, some businesses will financially benefit, and the many tourists who stop to take photos of our town will have an unimpeded view of the historic buildings.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 27

Lane Closure

The Managers headed south to the city to await the birth of number one grandchild, leaving a skeleton staff. Mrs Boss and I were the ‘chosen ones’ to produce the evening meal. Meat, vegetables, a macaroni cheese concocted the previous day, and our never-made-before sweet a sticky date pudding were prepared as a joint effort.

With the preparation complete and placed in the bain marie, soon the dining room rattled and clanged with the sound of cutlery and crockery as diners partook their evening substance. Mr Boss, feeling a need to show his ‘mine host’ skills moved amongst the dining tables making friendly conversation to two older couples that were guests for the night.

As is so often the case, conversation tends to center on the weather. The drought was top of the list. Straight faced and serious, Kevin told them that at Dalwallinu, in the wheat belt to the south where a drought was in evidence, it was so dry that they had to close two lanes of the local swimming pool. By this time I was sitting having my tea and turned around to see the looks on their faces. I couldn't believe it when one of the women looked shocked and said, "Really! That is so bad!" Kevin saw me looking and asked for my confirmation … I replied that lanes one and six were closed. I went into the kitchen to relate the conversation causing Pam and I to almost collapse with laughter. Later Kevin comes into the kitchen, and splitting his sides relates the whole episode. To me the closure of a lane because of the shortage of water was such a joke. It was beyond simple comprehension how those folks didn’t twig to the massive leg-pull. Pam considers Kevin wastes his wit, as frequently those it is directed to fail to ‘catch on’.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 26

Gardening Effort

There were ten green bottles hanging on the wall
Ten green bottles hanging on the wall
And if one green bottle should
accidentally
fall
There'll be nine green bottles hanging on the wall.

The little ditty that many of us learned at primary school has been rolling around my mind for much of the day. Not that I have been indulging in strong liquor and leaving green bottles all over the place … no … something entirely different caused this refrain to echo in the mind.

Several weeks ago I sent south to the big city of Perth for some flower seeds. I am not really a keen gardener. I like gardens but dislike the hard work involved. I realise that if weeding is kept up as a regular weekly chore the hard work is minimised. There is no garden at the pub. Perhaps that is the reason I suddenly had an urge to grow flowers. I decided on the variety … nasturtiums. Even the novice gardener, or would be gardener, can grow nasturtiums.

At my previous home I had thrown a packet of nasturtium seeds into a raised garden at the back door. The eaves kept the area dry but it was also reasonably sheltered from frosts. In my present abode there is no worry about frosts and as for dryness … we seldom have rain. Nasturtiums that are over watered will send all their energy into leaves … lovely big leaves; round leaves with slightly scalloped edges. Starved of water the plant sends its energies into reproduction … the creation of flowers. Nasturtiums send forth colourful blooms; deep orange, pure yellow, and sometimes a reddish brown flower raises it head.

I know cooks who add nasturtium flowers to salads. I confess to not being a fan of flowers in salads, but that is just my opinion. The flowers have a distinctive peppery aroma and they give a homely ambivalence to a kitchen if placed in a glass of water. Within moments their heads droop over the edge of the glass. The water magnifies the stems and somehow the whole effect, while simplistic, has a certain charm.

I waited for the packet of seeds to arrive in the post. Wrapped in foil and placed inside a colourful wrapper the packet was enticing. I carefully opened the foil and counted the seeds. There were seventeen. Now I remember when a packet of seeds of exactly that … a packet of seeds. Seventeen!? Hardly a packet? In fact I go as far as to say that seventeen seeds must do nothing to entice novices into gardening. I planted three in a container, a plastic terracotta coloured container with its own matching saucer. I hunted around to find suitable places to plant the other fourteen. We have some old zinc baths on the balcony. You recall the baths [before plastic] we used to bathe in front of the fire on a Sunday night? Water was heated in the copper, and in summer that water was recycled by tipping it onto the garden.

I ignored the fact that some guests had previously used the baths as ashtrays. I suppose that was preferable to smoking inside this old building and preferable to tossing them over the balcony onto the street. It took only moments to push the seeds into the red dirt and a dousing with a few jugs of water ensured they had a good start in life. I sat back waiting for the day when the balcony was a riot of colour. I imagined tourists pointing in astonishment and taking photos of the wonderful picture they would portray.

A few days later three cats became residents of the hotel. Within hours of their arrival the zinc baths had their base use altered. No longer ashtrays … no longer flower plots … now they were cat latrines, and the seeds were scratched into oblivion. I began the nightly habit of taking my small container, with three seeds safely planted, inside. No longer could I leave my balcony door open. This doors acts as my window and in this warm climate it is essential the air be changed in a room daily. [After a few days the cats, for some unknown reason, keep a safe distance. Maybe it was the fact that I made loud noises and stamped my feet whenever they came within twenty feet of my door.]

My three plants thrived. I left them out for a longer time each day. Becoming daring I left them out over night. Nothing happened. The cats kept their distance and I relaxed. My gardening efforts were finally being rewarded. Then one morning I heard a noise. Day had not broken, the water reticulation was hosing the grass meridian strip, but the noise was definitely feline in origins. I swung the door open just in time to see one of the cats, a nosey white and black cat, jumping down from my nasturtiums. I let out severe words … threatened instant death to this four-legged interloper. I brought the plants inside.

Death has come to two of the nasturtium plants that were so nurtured. The third plant is ailing. It is bruised on the stem, but I have hopes it will survive. I have sprinkled a liberal coating of pepper all around and I have uttered threats of allowing the Blue Heelers upstairs and let lose on the balcony. In hindsight, I may have been wiser to buy cacti … prickly cacti. It was suggested I send the cats on a journey … throw them over the balcony onto the deck of a road train … preferably one that has over 1000 miles to travel before it reaches it final destination. I do know that cats have fallen down my list of favourite pets.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 25

Gone to the Dogs

Our family of dogs has decreased with the move south of the 'roo dog. No great loss as the power struggles between him and 'top dog' did nothing to induce a good nights' sleep. They growled at each other, they acted like small children fighting over a bone. The other day, as I was loading the washing machine, a growling match was carried out within a few feet of me. I couldn't make out exactly what was the problem … until the 'roo dog gave up his prize … the end nozzle of a hose! I was amazed such a fuss carried on over such a small piece of plastic. I said my goodbye to the 'roo dog … it was not difficult as I considered him the instigator of three quarters of the troubles. Admittedly I may be biased, but any dog that jumps up and is taller than I, and has teeth as big as a smiling crocodile gave me the shivers. Teeth that large and that close frightened me. No, I will not miss him at all.

We still have the two Blue Heelers. Bear, following an extensive course of pills to improve his eczema, has bloomed into good health. He has grown, outwards and upwards. He has confidence, and no longer cowers expecting a hiding that he received as a pup and which he so obviously dreaded. This morning dawned clear and bright, the suns rays warming the air that had been cool with biting winds whistling off the desert. I completed my chores and, taking advantage of the warmth, donned a cardigan, clipped the lead onto Bear and headed north.

Bear was ecstatic. He sniffed the ground and strained the leash. Cars and trucks were another story! He heard them coming, stopped and looked … until the moment they were opposite and at that critical moment he made a concerted attempt to chase the vehicle. I tightened the lead pulling his neck chain, thus making any dash impossible. It did take several attempted chases before he realised they were forbidden. He gave up, deciding obedience was the better part of valour!

On the town boundary Bear suddenly stood still. Gentle persuasion failed to get him moving. I looked to see exactly what the problem was. No animals hiding in the sparse vegetation, no crows hovering above, only a culvert under the highway that looked empty and innocent to my eyes. Bear had other ideas. I cajoled … he stood stubborn. I wheedled … he stood stubborn. There were no options but to persuade him nothing untoward lurked in the small tunnel. I hauled him towards the culvert … his ears lay flat, but after a closer inspection he decided that no danger lurked. We continued our walk.

Although a little rain has fallen on our parched earth over the last week it was impossible to ascertain where it landed. The ground was dry. Plants had not flourished. Signs of drought were abound. To Bear the smells were the most interesting. He sniffed the ground forcing me to follow an unseen path. We wandered towards the pepper tree that stood green and vibrant against the tan rocks lying exposed in a small hollow.

An abandoned mine site caused a flutter of excitement as Bear stretched to peer through the boarded-up shaft. Thankfully the shaft had a fence to protect curious sightseers. While I am extremely interested in how life must have been for miners over the last 100 years, I prefer to wonder from a distance. I imagine the hot summer and the cold winter and am thankful I missed the experience, fascinating though it may have been. Bear preferred to sniff as he explored this new environment. Mounds of rock, bushes designed to trap and hold moisture, and tiny stones lying on the ground all combined to make the walk an interesting diversion for us both.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 24

Things that go BUMP in the night

It all began when the Irish sisters arrived.

I have walked the long narrow corridors with ceilings so high one has to stretch their neck upwards, and never have I noticed anything untoward. I have, if I look carefully, seen spider webs hanging suspended from the pressed tin ceiling, and when the rains tumble from the usually brilliant blue sky, miniature waterfalls trickle from the ceiling, necessitating a bucket and mop brigade to sweep the blood red, though in reality only stained with the red dirt that abounds in The Outback, swirling waters out a door that remains locked.

I have often been woken in the darkness of a moonless night from sudden loud crashing noises emanating from downstairs. I lie awake listening. There is silence. Slowly as my eyes become heavy and sleep once again claims my senses I am left wondering if it was simply imagination. No one else hears the din, which left me to suspect they had retired much later than me and were in a state of deep sleep. In any elderly building … the hotel celebrated its centenary a few years ago … there are creaks and groans as indeed there is with centenarians. Loose floorboards squeak, doors rattle when the easterly winds whistle in from the desert, and curtains move quietly.

Often I notice a shadow passing the window and assume that someone is walking on the footpath outside. Or perhaps it is simply a low flying crow, those large black birds that squawk incessantly from the power lines, or the lone one that peers down the vent in the kitchen ceiling making what sound like indecent, and persistent calls as I prepare food. I ignored such noises and learned to close my ears, and eyes, to their increasing frequency.

Many nights I am the only resident asleep in the hotel and as I make my way to the bathroom for my ablutions or head down the darkened staircase to the lower level I am struck by the benevolent atmosphere that wraps itself around the building, like a warm comforting blanket in the middle of winter. When one of the dogs, or all of the dogs, have crept indoors … to keep warm … and curl up to pass the night hours on the orange soft chairs arranged conversationally on the upstairs landing, suddenly twitch their ears or open their eyes as if expecting to have a friendly hand pat them … no one is there.

One day the Irish sisters arrived. Nothing has been the same since.

A girls' night in the cottage evolved into what could have been a night of tales around a flickering campfire. Instead of simple songs such as sung at Girl Guide camps, ghostly tales were whispered, while outside the wind howled around the ancient building and branches of the palm tree scratched eerily on the tin walls.

But I progress too quickly with this tale.

The sisters' arrival at the hotel could only be called singularly surprising. The girls had called into an employment agency seeking work, preferably in the country, as they have a declared interest in horsemanship. And … they desired to be together, which is completely normal when so far from their native land. Their particulars were taken. Unfortunately the agency had no such positions on their books, but a promise was made they would be informed the moment any suitable jobs became available.

They barely noticed the middle-aged couple sitting behind them in the interview room. The couple were looking for a housemaid and a barmaid, and informed the receptionist that the two Irish girls were exactly who they were looking for.

Hardly a block away, sitting in a coffee shop awaiting their cappuccinos, a telephone buzzes in one of the girl's handbags. The outcome of that call was that the girls travelled north a few days later … settling in to what was initially a 'culture shock' [their words] situation.

They listened to the tales that became increasingly spookier … tales of ghostly bodies dripping blood staring out from mirrors, tales of suddenly becoming aware that hairs standing up on the back of your neck combined with a cold clammy feeling were not natural. When they dispersed to their separate rooms it was with trepidation. Next morning the conversation continued.

It was then that the Irish sisters mentioned ghosts in our building. When we enquired as to the form these ghostly happenings occurred I was surprised to be told about shadows walking past the windows. One of the girls was standing not far from the window, and being of a curious nature, had stepped closer to the pane to see exactly who was out in the cold of the early morning. To her utmost surprise she could see no one …from either direction. This happened twice, convincing her of a ghostly influence.

She related the noises … voices from the walls of an empty room, music that played gently but when checked out it stopped. She went on … the bangs erupting from downstairs and no explanation as to its source.

I confess to laughing the matter off, asking if one of them was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. No … they were not.

Not wishing them to scare others I asked if they felt the ‘presence’ benevolent or malevolent. They had to confess to not being afraid. Since that day I listen carefully for other examples of what may well be ghostly presences, but feel I will not bother to investigate too closely unexplained disturbances or noises. Some things are best left to be wondered at.

My Time in Cue ~ Part 23

It's a Dogs' Life

The hotel as three dogs … two Blue Heelers and one Roo dog. I consider the Blue Heelers my friends, but Tigger the Roo dog is too tall, jumps up and at the moment is trying for the 'top dog' position'. Whenever the boss is away for a few days there are growling matches that go well into the night, barking and yapping sessions that disturb our sleep and cause rumblings of discontent. Wombat, slow, fat and the undisputed leader of the pack, has to be on constant guard if he is to keep his leadership. At the moment he is winning, but unless a new home is found for Tigger his seniority may drop. We offer Tigger to anyone remarks upon his size, or in fact anyone who even notices him.

The third dog is Bear, also a Blue Heeler, but younger than Wombat, though older than Tigger. Bear had little confidence in his ability to be a pack member and whenever the fights began he would seek shelter from the warmongers in the corridor, or hide in the deep recess of a storeroom doorway. Bear dislikes the brawling and makes every effort to remain neutral.

Bear suffered from a skin irritation that had him scratching endlessly. From the far end of the kitchen I would hear the rattle of his collars [he wears two … it seems to be a fashion statement] as he tried in vain to vanquish the foe. Bathing did not help, powders designed to kill tics and fleas only added to his distress. There seemed to easy cure and a visit to the Vet was inevitable.

One Sunday morning Bear was taken to the surgery. A diagnosis was made … I never enquired as to the results. There was a cure! A plastic bag of blue pills to be taken twice daily for one week, once a day for the second week, and from then on, one every second day. As so often happens when there is a task to be done the boss is away. This time I was seconded to look after Bear. After all wasn't I the one who patted the dogs or talked to them, or both, every time I went out the back door. There was method in this … to be high on the resident dogs' list of friends is preferable to being high on their list of enemies. Our dogs have certain dislikes and to show that dislike a nip of ankles, or any other bare part of the body, gives their dislike a tangible meaning.

How to persuade Bear to take the pills posed a small problem, for a moment or two. While I think they are lovely and friendly I baulked at laying the little blue pill on my hand and offering it to him 'naked' [so to say]. We hear Oprah talking of a light bulb moment, and while she doesn't necessarily mean in the context of giving a dog a pill, the significance is similar. I had a light bulb moment. In the dim recesses of my mind a thought shone forth … hide the pill in a palatable treat! I determined the treat should remain the same for the entire course of blue pills, which of course cut down on the alternatives.

A piece of ham might serve the purpose. We buy ham in bulk and there is always plenty available as in reality I am the only one who uses it, and that is for the guys' lunches … that they call cribs, and I have no idea why. However, I digress.

In the first week I cut a hunk of ham … hardly a slice as it was reasonably thick … and with a sharp knife inserted a tiny pocket in the thickest part. Into that pocket I slipped the pill. If one was decorating, the colour scheme of a rather pretty blue almost the shade of a Jacaranda flower, alongside the delicate pink of fresh ham is interesting, though probably better suited for a nursery than a lounge. Because I had no desire to engender feelings of not being wanted and thus create neurotic dogs, I sliced slivers for Wombat and Tigger.

The first time I dosed Bear he ate it direct from my hand … but … the feel of his teeth on my palm made that the last time. Not that he would bite … it was just a risk I had no wish to take. One chomp and the ham containing the pill were gone. Wombat and Tigger looked in surprise at the small piece allocated to them, but taking it as it was meant … a treat … who were they to snub such an offering. The first week wore on. Bear was lethargic, lying around disinterested. Week two saw a minuscule improvement. We are now at the end of week three. Bear bounces towards the door the moment he hears me and sniffs eagerly for his medication. I am still being kind to Wombat and Tigger and tossing a tiny portion their way. Bear is a changed dog. He hasn't entered the seniority wars, being much too sensible for that, but he has vigour, verve and vitality. Whatever his affliction was, it is definitely well on the way to being cured. We still have enough blue pills for another week, and just yesterday another large piece of ham was delivered … more than enough to complete the course.