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.