 
# MY OTHER SHORTS & FORMAL TALES

# John Muir

Copyright © John Robert Muir 2007. John Robert Muir asserts the legal and moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent and permission of the publisher.

# DISCLAIMER:

These stories are works of fiction. The names and characters are from the imagination of the author and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. If you think the author has written about you, your ego is greater than your imagination or common sense.

# Licence Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the source, and purchase your own copy from your favourite retailer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

# Acknowledgements

The author and publisher wish to thank the many individuals for ideas, editing, encouragement and support. It was only with your wonderful support that I achieved far more sales with my first book than I thought possible, and that enabled this second collection of new short stories to be published. Thanks to Walter Kupa, Foxton, New Zealand for the use of the image on the front cover.

Paperback published 2012 by Imp Publications

c/o Agar & Crombie

P.O.Box 117

OTAKI 5512, NEW ZEALAND

Published in EBooks 2013

Smashwords Edition 2013

# **********

# MY OTHER SHORTS & FORMAL TALES

# John Muir

# CONTENTS INDEX

HUGE

BRAZIL

STATIONS OF THE CROSS

TRAVELLERS

BIRTHDAY DRINKS

TECHNOLOGY FOR THE ELDERLY

COMING HOME

CLUB CHAMPIONSHIP

A SUNDAY MARKET SELLER

MY MOST MEMORABLE MEAL

RING, RING

ON THE ROOF

A HORSE'S TALE

OLD FELLAS

THE VISITOR

PRINCE OF THE PINT CLUB

THE CLIPBOARD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Discover other titles by John Muir

# **********

#  HUGE

The guy was huge. I really mean huge. So close to two metres tall any variation below two metres would fit under a fingernail. His shoulders bulged with muscles hardened from outdoor work.

He obviously liked to show off his physique. The dirty black bush singlet he wore; stretched tight around his shoulders and seriously broad chest. The possibility of anything other than a washboard ribcage was impossible to believe.

No fat anywhere. The chest tapered slightly to a strong and solid set of hips covered by dirty black shorts.

Even the shorts were short and tight to show off his large thighs. The size of his dirty colour-faded work boots matched the rest of his body size.

Huge. The sheer bulk was threatening.

But there was a striking anomaly to this body. Though he must have been in his late twenties, he had a rounded baby face, almost soft and puffy. The fair hair was dirty, and uncombed. If properly washed and brushed it would have been an early Beatles style.

The arrogant aggression on his face was emphasised by a forced down-turned mouth. Forced or not, it was issuing a "don't mess with me" challenge.

The piped background music was playing 'The Girl From Ipanema'.

My surprise at seeing Huge enter this bar was matched by every good eye of every patron looking at this enormous man. I say 'good eye' because I had noticed earlier that one older man, seated nearby, had a poor quality glass eye. His attempted ruse to cover that disability made it more obvious, rather than less, by the mismatching of colour and size; unless it was his impression of singer David Bowie. I presumed his glass eye could not see Huge.

After the initial surprise passed, I noticed Huge had two equally dirtily dressed but normal sized male companions. All three had the strong aroma of perspiration. Dust and dirt covered the faces and forearms of all three.

Even though this was backblocks country, the hotel management had a dress code for the restaurant bar section. People dressed like Huge were meant to remain in the front bar.

The 80 or so patrons in the dining and bar area, of both sexes, and seated around the tables, were tidily dressed. Many men were wearing ties, with the occasional suit in attendance.

Several women had donned their finest choices from the deep recesses of their closets to enjoy this evening out.

"Here's trouble," said a male voice. I looked around to see where the comment originated. Obviously the statement was not meant to be heard by anyone other than the commenter's nearby friends. The utterer had said it louder than he intended and was shifting nervously in his seat worrying whether Huge heard it.

A few couples rose from their seats, and left their tables, drinks unfinished. Giving Huge and his companions a wide berth; they left the restaurant and bar.

There were several empty tables with surrounding chairs available. Some just cleared of glasses and crockery from consumed meals. There were now even more where just departed patrons had left. Those tables became the rushed target of a waitress clearing and wiping as fast as she could.

Huge was not interested in any of those. He walked directly to a booth against the wall beneath a large framed print of wrestler Hulk Hogan in an action pose, red bandanna wrapped around his head. The oblong table beneath had leather bench seats, with shoulder-high leather backs for three patrons each side. Three people already occupied that booth; two patrons on one side, one on the other. All three were wearing well worn leather motor cycling jackets, and clean long blue denims.

With Huge standing at the end of their table, they carried on their conversation as if Huge and his friends were not there.

Huge gave the table a nudge with his leg to attract the attention of the seated patrons. They stopped talking and looked up in feigned surprise.

"This is my table."

The three seated patrons looked at each other before looking back at Huge and his companions. They said nothing.

"When my friends and I come back with our drinks, my table had better be empty."

Though the face was babyish, the voice was deep, loud and harsh.

Watched by the three leather jackets, Huge and his escorts turned and walked away. Instead of going to the bar they went through the doors marked with the human figure, without the skirt.

Several more patrons took advantage of this pause in proceedings, some even leaving partly consumed meals, they quickly gathered their belongings, and left. Not even a brief thought was given to requesting a doggy-bag.

As my seat and table was next to the leather jacketed patrons, and with the atmosphere suddenly permeating with tension, I took the opportunity to put more distance between myself and the possible trouble area. I went to the bar for a refill, and stayed to sit on one of the comfortable bar stools where anything happening could easily be seen. I had not yet ordered a meal.

As I left my table, the smell of perspiration still hung in the air as though an animal had left a message to other creatures that it had passed this way.

The barman was looking around, unnecessarily polishing drinking glasses with a bar towel, lips slightly apart, teeth gritted.

"Expecting trouble?" I asked, immediately realising how stupid the obvious was.

"Yeah. This big guy often comes in, always looking for a fight. Always claims the Hulk Hogan table as his own. The regulars leave it empty."

"So the leather jackets aren't regulars?"

"No. Don't know who they are. They were already here when I started, seem peaceful enough. Had dinner at their table; a few drinks, not many. I wish they'd leave though. I can't ask them to leave, they've done nothing wrong."

The leather jacket seated alone on one side of the table was slightly older than the two facing him. He looked in his late 30's. Longish clean dark hair, balding in the centre, and a droopy moustache on a darkened face that looked like it had not been shaved for a week. His two companions, seated opposite, had similar hair styles, but not balding, and with clean-shaven faces. Probably in their late 20's.

"Why don't you warn them?" I asked.

"If I do and the big guy sees me, I'll end up with a broken arm like the last barman that did that. No, if the leather jackets are wise they'll leave."

"Why don't you call the police?"

"This is a small country town. Local Police Station closed three years ago. Apart from this guy, there's no crime here. Nearest station is 30 minutes away with only three officers. The senior there is this big guy's cousin. If we call him in, for the next six months he'll sit outside the hotel and breath test everyone who comes out. Good for the only taxi in town, bad for our business."

I looked around and saw the remaining patrons shifting their gaze between the seated leather jackets and the entry to the men's toilet.

The expected eventually happened. Huge and his companions emerged. Faces and forearms now washed and clean. With theatrics I was not expecting, Huge paused outside the door, hitched his already high shorts even higher, signalled to his two companions to position themselves a metre each side, and a metre behind him. Then with an exaggerated swagger, Huge and his companions sauntered toward the Hulk Hogan table.

Shades of High Noon, Gunfight at O.K Corral, and all the westerns I had ever seen, flashed into my mind. Where was the dramatic music? The current piped instrumental styling of 'Feelings' was playing. It did not suit the atmosphere.

Huge's arrowhead formation stopped at the head of the table. This time, the leather jackets watched Huge's group approach, apparently unconcerned.

"They call me 'Chopper'," said Huge in a loud and aggressive voice. "I chop down anything that gets in my way or annoys me. I used to think it was because I chopped down trees for a living."

His companions laughed in reaction to Huge's quip.

The oldest member of the leather jackets grinned. "I'm sorry if I think it's funny," he said, "but I've destroyed two choppers in my life. The first chopper was I crashed was an Army Huey helicopter on exercises; the second was a bloody good motor bike I'd only had for six months. Both totally destroyed. Written off. Useless after I'd finished with them."

Bearded Leather Jacket's friends gave wide smiles at the response.

Huge's eyes flicked backward and forward between the three leather jackets.

"I saw your 'townie wimp' motor bikes outside. One even had a side-car. Which one of you is the girl that rides in that one?"

The oldest one raised his arm. "I'm the guilty one."

"Yeah, I suppose you big city bikie-boys think you're tough eh? You're among the real men now."

The leather jackets looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and all nodded in the negative.

"Just get off my table you wimps," yelled Chopper.

Bearded Leather Jacket's two colleagues looked at their moustached senior. He nodded. As the younger two got up to leave one paused and looked at his older friend and said, "O.K. Killer, we're your witnesses that it's self defence again."

Huge's eyes again flashed between the three leather jackets. Then he checked each side to verify his companions were still there. They were.

The younger leather jackets picked up their beer bottles and moved to the next booth that I had just deserted.

"Well," said the old leather jacket, "If you think you deserve to get this table, why can't we settle it like gentlemen?"

"Yeah. You aint no gentleman, man. Smashing up a girl like you won't give me no pleasure."

"No, I mean I'll arm wrestle you; best of three for the table."

Huge and his two friends burst out laughing. Huge was feeling confident again after his fleeting uncertainty about the 'killer' comment.

"Jesus old man, you've gotta be joking. I can do 200 full body push-ups, I'll break you're smart-arse arms off and feed 'em to the wild pigs in the bush."

"Gee, 200 eh? That's a lot. At my age I can only do push-ups like the girls, from the waist up."

Huge nodded toward the table. His two friends cleared away the remaining empty beer bottles. Huge sat on the bench- seat opposite the senior leather jacket, and banged the large elbow of his right arm heavily onto the table.

Arm outstretched and with the massive palm of his huge hand open, he said, "I'm ready, if I don't accidentally crush your dainty little hand first."

"One of your friends can put his hand over ours," said the senior leather jacket. "We take up the strain and start pressing when your friend removes his hand. O.K.?"

"O.K. sissy boy. I'll play your little rules before I break your arm."

Leather Jacket undid the button at the end of his right jacket sleeve. The sleeve was wide. He rolled the leather back to above his elbow.

Huge moved his body and arm back noticeably in surprise at thickness of leather jackets wrist, powerful forearms, and broad elbow joint.

Leather Jacket gently placed his elbow on the table to emphasise some class to his act.

The two hands locked and both took up the pressure. Though Huge's hands were noticeably bigger, he winced a little as Leather Jacket took a full grip.

One of Huge's colleagues put his palm over the two fists already quivering under the strain.

The colleague lifted his hand quickly, and within the first second, Huge's hand had been pushed halfway back to the table. Two seconds later, Huge's hand crashed against the table surface.

Cheers erupted from the patrons, then, were quickly stifled at thoughts of possible later retaliation from Huge.

Huge jumped out of his seat.

"You cheated," he roared, "you cheated. You started before he raised his hand. I wasn't ready."

Huge walked toward the colleague that had put his hand over the quivering fists at the start, and pushed him powerfully in the chest. His colleague, unprepared, and unbalanced; stumbled backward a couple of steps attempting to recover; failed, and fell on the floor.

Huge glared briefly at each of the patrons who had remained. The patrons averted their eyes and pretended to show disinterest in what was going on.

"O.K., I said it's the best of three," said Bearded Leather Jacket. "You've only got to win them both."

"No, you cheated at the start."

"See the Grandfather clock," said Leather Jacket, "it chimes every quarter. It's nearly to a quarter now. We take up the strain just before the quarter and go on the very first strike of the chime. O.K.? The first strike. Not the end. Agreed?"

Huge's colleague regained his feet, and Huge had finally regained sufficient composure to become re-seated opposite his protagonist.

"All right you maggot-brained city-geek. I'll be ready this time."

"About a minute to go," called one of Leather Jacket's friends.

The two resumed the position, clasping right hands across the table. Then, adjusting grip for any advantage, it would immediately be reset by the other to counteract any disadvantage.

Huge adjusted his body position several times to maximise his superior height and arm length. They were both ready.

Patrons had moved to the sides to see past Huge's colleagues. Leather Jacket's colleagues had moved, unnoticed, behind Huge's allies.

The fists of the protagonists were quivering in readiness for the Grandfather clock chime. The silence was so extreme the sound of the clock pendulum could be heard as though amplified. The pipe music was in silent tape rewind mode. No music was issuing forth.

The expected chime, when it came, still startled all the patrons, yet their eyes never strayed from the two straining figures looking frozen in a macabre pose.

The power was being applied by Huge.

"Are you sure you're ready this time?" asked the seemingly normal and unstressed voice of Leather Jacket.

Huge did not reply. He was concentrating his power to his arm.

"O.K. then, I'm starting."

Huge's fist started slowly to bend over backward at the wrist. Then the arm too started to yield in a steady but noticeable movement towards the table.

The inevitable happened, although this time it took almost thirty seconds. Huge's fist touched the table and was held down solidly. The patrons cheered and applauded. Huge roared and tried to smash his left forearm over Leather Jackets head.

Leather Jacket saw it coming, and with quick reflexes his right hand stopped the arm as it descended. Simultaneously his left hand snapped sideways to grab Huge's right arm, which was still flat on the table.

Huge's two colleagues rushed forward to help Huge. Both were immediately pole-axed from behind by Leather Jacket's allies and found themselves seated on the floor with spinning heads, and held down at the shoulders.

Huge swore a series of curses as Leather Jacket held Huge's arms flat on the table. Huge responded by spitting at Leather Jacket.

Whether Huge saw what was coming next, I will never know.

Using Huge's arms as gripping points, Leather Jacket propelled his body forward, and drove the top of his head into Huge's unprotected face. Then, sliding back into his seat he continued to hold Huge's arms firmly on the table. Huge struggled unsuccessfully to lift his hands to his face. The reason for the scream of pain from Huge was obvious. His nose seemed almost flat against his face with blood streaming out. Blood was also beginning to trickle down from his eyebrows.

Unable to move his arms, Huge put his face down to his arms. Leather Jacket released his arm holds and grabbed each of Huge's ears and slammed Huge's face hard into the table top.

Blood was now spurting from his forehead, nose, and lips. Huge spat the bile that accumulated in his mouth. Several broken teeth fell onto the table. He tried to stand, but the dizziness in his head was too great. He flopped back into his seat, moaning in agony. The blood from the splits to both eyebrows was beginning to run into his eyes. He would never look baby-faced again.

Leather Jacket turned to his colleagues as he rolled down his sleeve.

"Time to go and get on our wheels I think."

One younger leather jacket walked to the bar and opened a cupboard. He pulled out a collapsible wheelchair, opened it out, and wheeled it to where Old Leather Jacket sat.

The young leather jacket faced the wheelchair into the end of the table, locked the brake, and stood back.

Old Leather Jacket slid along the seat. With the balance of an acrobat, he swung himself into it unassisted. Adjusting his paralysed legs to a proper place on the footrests, he released the brake, and aimed the wheelchair in the direction of the door.

Grasping the outer ring hand grips, he gave just one powerful push of his arms, and free-wheeled toward the exit door. Raising both arms above his head, he extended two fingers of each hand and gave a Richard Nixon style 'victory sign'.

The piped music had begun again. It was only when the patrons began to cheer and applaud the departing wheelchair warrior that I recognised the song - Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust."

# \----------

A year later I was in the same area, and visited the same hotel.

It was early in the day, few patrons were around. The barman was the same I had seen that night. I asked him what happened after Huge had recovered.

"Nothing. It took a quite a few minutes for the big guy to get his head cleared, then wiped much of the blood from his face with the paper napkins. With his colleagues on each side, helping him with his balance, they all left quickly without as much as a sideward glance. They've never been back. Apparently they didn't even go back to the logging camp to collect their pay or belongings. Just disappeared. His cousin, the Police Sergeant, says he doesn't know where they went. Nobody believes him. His face turns red; he becomes embarrassed, and changes the subject whenever the incident is raised. Not at all unexpectedly, there were no patrons saying they were in the bar, or witnessed any incident that night. Nobody remembered seeing anybody in leather jackets in the town around that time."

"Very strange that," I grinned.

"Yes it was. Even I was downstairs in the cellar changing kegs. Didn't see a thing did I? I didn't see you there either."

Now, after all these years, I really wished I had also asked if Old Leather Jacket ever came back.

# **********

# BRAZIL

"Here we are Neville," said Grandma as she escorted me onto the clear Perspex covered deck. "Sit out here with Grandpa and enjoy the sun while I finish getting the party things organized. The grumpy old deaf bugger won't annoy you."

I subconciously nodded, as if understanding.

Grandma went on. "With his Alzheimer's, he won't remember you. If he's off in his dream world he probably won't even know you're there."

"That's O.K., Gran. Just call out if you need my help."

"Thanks for coming early like I asked, but I've decided that we'd all eat inside. So I won't need you to lift the table outside."

"That's O.K. Gran. I see he's still got his favourite old chair.

"Oh Neville. Don't remind me. Sometimes I feel ashamed. It should've been thrown away 15 years ago. When we got the new lounge suite, he wanted to keep his chair for the terrace. He said if it went, so would he. I should've thrown him out with the other useless junk. At least the other chair, my one, is newer."

Grandpa glanced up and briefly looked at the pair standing on the wooden deck with eyes that seemed glazed and far away before returning to stare into the distance.

I grinned as I looked at Grndpa's well worn, but obviously still comfortable, single lounge seat. "It's really lasted a long time. I remember it was outside and looked old even before I started high school."

"Only the terrace roof has protected it from the rain all these years."

"How's he been?"

"Physically, very well. He talks when he wants to, but it's rare. His Alzheimer's is embarrassing when we have guests. Sometimes it's worse than others. He doesn't remember any of my friends or many of my relations. And when they try to tell him who they are, he can't hear them, so eventually they give up."

"Don't worry, Gran. I'll just soak up some rays. Just call out if you need me."

"Thanks again, Neville." Grandma turned and walked inside as Neville made himself comfortable in Grandma's chair.

When I looked across at Grandpa, I was surprised to see him looking back, eyes now very clear and focused. I nodded a silent acknowledgement and again was surprised at Grandpa's nodded response.

Grandpa was soon back gazing into the distance, and it was silent for a few seconds.

Grandpa sat forward, looked left and right along the terrace and then sat back again.

"Brazil."

"What?" I looked up surprised. I sat forward in my chair. It was the first time I had heard Grandpa speak in over ten years

"Brazil," he repeated, leaning further backward on his precious sofa recliner. God only knows how the sofa had survived. It had suffered 20 or so years of outdoor weathering and it gave the appearance it had been rescued from the rubbish dump. But, it was Grandpa's, and only tolerated by Grandma because it was unseen at the back of the house.

With the back of the sofa away from any windows or doors, and against the outside wall, it was probably the most private part of the deck.

"Yep. Brazil."

I nearly ran inside to tell Grandma that Grandpa was speaking.

"Do you want me to get Grandma and tell her you're talking?"

"Not if you want to live, boy."

I quickly decided in favour of our privacy. Grandpa had been deaf for over 15 years, though he could lip-read if he was looking at you. With his Alzheimer's he rarely spoke with visitors or relations around.

"But you've been deaf for over 15 years. Have you got a hearing aid now?"

"What for? I don't wanna look like I've got a big fat boil growing out of my ears. I don't need no hearin' aid."

"Sorry. I was just a bit surprised."

"You'll learn soon enough, everything is not as it appears."

"What about Brazil, Grandpa?"

Grandpa again cast his eyes left and right along the deck to confirm we were alone. Satisfied that we were, he put his hands behind his neck and locked his fingers.

"Should be the world's wealthiest nation."

I balked in surprise. Perhaps it was coincidence that his answer related to my question.

"Why so wealthy?"

"It's got it all."

I looked in his direction. He could not be reading my lips from that angle.

"Why isn't it then?"

"Would be if it weren't run by idiots."

"What's so special about it?"

"Its rain forests supply a third of the world's supply of oxygen; stupidly giving it away for free!"

That would seemingly confirm he was hearing every word I was saying, otherwise the accurate related answers to the questions I had asked was astronomically coincidental.

"It's good you're not deaf Grandpa."

"Course I'm not deaf! Never have been. And you young Neville better keep your mouth shut about it too."

"What about Grandma?"

"You don't have to live with her. She's the main reasons I want to be deaf. She's like a 24 hour, non-stop, talk back radio show that you can't turn off. Now she just stands at the sink, talking away to herself. She doesn't bother cursing me under her breath any longer, she just lets it all hang out, as loud as she wants. Doesn't think I can hear a word she saying. Maybe you'll understand when you get old like me. Yep, you just start to switch off from all the lip-flap, and they presume you're deaf."

"Does anyone else know you're not deaf?"

"Just some very few."

"What about the Alzheimer's then?"

"Think about it boy. Haven't you met enough fools yet to know you can't be bothered remembering them, let alone talk to them? Deafness and Alzheimer's fixes both those problems."

Grandma stepped onto the decking, stood in front of Grandpa and mimed putting a cup of tea to her lips.

"Cuppa tea?" she mouthed silently.

He seemingly lip-read and nodded.

Grandma looked at me. "What about you Neville? Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee thanks Gran. Milk and one sugar."

"You know the stubborn old bugger won't even let me take him to get his hearing checked. Maybe get one of those really good hearing-aids. You know, some of my friends, well, their husbands have got them. Now they can talk to their husband's any time. Whereas this old bugger just sits there. No sense talking to him. He's beyond reasoning."

Grandma threw a look of daggers at Grandpa as she turned and walked inside.

Once I was sure she was out of earshot, I said "Why not a hearing aid? Haven't there been times you've felt guilty and think you should suddenly recover your hearing?"

"C'mon. I might be old but I'm not stupid. I've learned a thing or two in my lifetime. Sometimes the benefits far outweigh the occasional disadvantages. You heard what she said. The weak dominated husbands with their hearing-aids still get lip-flap all the time. I don't. You know why? She thinks I'm deaf. If I want to go out, I do. She knows it's no good arguing if I can't hear her."

I could see Grandpa's reasoning. Grandma always had a reputation for talking a lot.

"Sometimes it's a bit annoying when I'm watching sport on the TV and she turns the sound down because she thinks I don't need it."

"So, who else do you talk to?"

"All my other deaf mates at the club. Twice a week I go there to play cards and have a few drinks with them. Or we'll all meet up to watch a big game on the big screen at the club. It's great without nagging wives ruining it all."

Grandma returned carrying Grandpa's cup and saucer of tea, and my coffee in a mug.

"I could've sworn I heard voices talking," she said

"Nah," I said. "Just me singing to myself."

"Such a pity Grandpa can't hear you. You've always had such a lovely voice, even when you were little." She looked at Grandpa, nodded her head vigorously, and exhaled noisily between her clenched teeth.

"Just look at it, Neville. The useless blob just sits there like a wobbly jelly. I'd rather have a dog for company. At least it pays attention and listens when you speak." She muttered some unintelligible obscenities at Grandpa before she turned and walked back indoors.

Grandpa's eyes followed her indoors. After a few moments, to make sure she was out of hearing range, he looked at me.

"Don't take no offence Neville. Grandma's tone deaf. She's just trying to grease your wheels boy and get on your good side. You couldn't sing for shit."

I sat back in my chair, fingers locked together behind my neck, and thought about Grandpa's comments.

"You're a wise and very honest man Grandpa."

# **********

# STATIONS OF THE CROSS

Charlie Edwards felt good. Better than he had for years. He had already walked nearly three kilometers toward his early morning destination. The hotel's night kitchen had provided him with cereals, fruit, bread, butter and fruit juices for an early breakfast before his pre-dawn outing. It was still dark, and the night still cool. His way was sufficiently lit by the underpowered street lighting to easily find his way.

Despite carrying several kilos weight in a solid camera bag containing a video camera, digital camera, two tripods, spare lenses, filters and spare memory cards; he had kept up a rapid pace. Suitably dressed in shorts, cotton shirt, and shod in locally made Adidas running shoes, he had barely raised perspiration on his forehead. He had prepared well for this overseas trip.

The peacefulness of the walk, with the absence of any road traffic, allowed his mind to drift back to the months of running the two kilometer perimeter of the park near his home. Even after five laps he always felt he could do more. It was running in its broadest interpretation; others would have called it jogging. He just did it his way.

Then, the sweat would be pouring off his forehead and cheeks and into his beard as he went through his warm-down routine. The bonus was the loss of a few kilos weight.

His previous trip to Singapore and the Malay peninsular had become a disaster through his own lack of preparation. By the third day on one of the many long walks, he had suffered such leg-calf strain he had to suspend much of his remaining itinerary. The hotel doctor diagnosed the injury as a pulled calf-muscle, and prescribed total bed rest as the only quick way to recovery.

Before that trip, he had always thought of himself as being naturally fit. After that trip, and with a bit of honest self-examination, he conceded that, now he was in his early 40's, he had done little honest exercise since his teens. This time though, a prepared and fit Charlie Edwards was ready to conquer the world; a small part of it at anyway.

He never thought of himself as anything other than a normal tourist. This was not his first visit to the Philippines, but being around Easter, it was a much celebrated religious time for the countries zealous Catholic locals, and good photo opportunities. He had already watched in amazement at films of some of the parades, as a few locals flagellated their own bare backs with home made whips; blood seeping down their back.

This was his first nature photographic adventure on this self designed itinerary; a visit to Davao in Mindanao. From his in-depth pre-trip research he decided it would be a shame to miss an opportunity to photograph the rising sun from the top of Mt. Matina, the highest point around the city and districts. It seemed from the readings that the word Mt. was a misnomer. Photo's showed it was a hill covered in rain forest. He had memorized the simple map on how to get to the Mt. Matina Park entry gate from his hotel. A single road led to the church at the summit. At Easter, the road to the summit would have the traditional figures for the Stations of the Cross interspersed along the route

The moonlit sky was clear and cloudless, but from his experience, he knew that was a prelude to a stinking hot muggy day.

He was amazed at the considerable number of locals out for a morning run. They were kitted out properly in genuine athletic gear and running shoes, and all apparently heading in the same direction as him.

At his walking speed, both the joggers and the runners passed him quite quickly. He envied the health and energy of these youth, and thought back to the days of his own youth and peak fitness. Against him then, these buggers would not have stood a chance.

At the eastern entry to the park the gradient began to rise quite quickly. Even this road, though narrow, was well maintained asphalt; and confidence in a safe footfall was not a worry. He did not want any twisted ankles. There were no taxis here. It would mean making a painful and limping return to the hotel. The road was just wide enough to allow converging cars to pass; even then one, or both, would probably brush against the dense rain forest pressing each side. Though the rain-forest jungle provided shade, it also kept in the heat.

Runners still passed him, but with the upward slope, it was at a slower pace. Despite the incline, he tried to maintain the same length of stride and foot speed. The sweat was starting to soak into his shirt. Some Stations of the Cross came and went. Nobody else was stopping to admire them, so he did not bother either. The local runners were showing a total disinterest. He would photograph those on the way back when the light was suitable.

By about the fourth Station; and a now even steeper slope, his fast steady walking pace meant he was gaining ground on some of the runners. In fact he began to pass some who seemed to almost be running on the spot. Others had stopped for a breather, or slowed to a walk.

Charlie felt something begin to fire up deep within the cortex of his brain. A feeling he had not had for years, but it only took him seconds to recognize. That ingrained competitive streak had started. Here he was, the sole representative of his country in the race. He increased his walking speed even faster, and despite the slope, pushed the pace as hard as he could without breaking into a run.

Slowly but surely, the bulk of the runners that had passed him were being pulled in and passed. The Stations of the Cross, whatever the numbers, were flitting by with only a casual glance.

His mind began to hear the glorious sound of the National Anthem being played at the awards ceremony as they placed the gold medal around his neck. He had decided that while he had breath, these locals were not going to beat him.

He began to wipe the now continual run of sweat from his eyes, and regularly shifted the position of the camera bag from one shoulder to the other. The leather carry strap was soaked with sweat. The chafing on the shoulders meant he had to occasionally carry the bag in equally sweating hands. Perspiration poured off the end his nose, worse than if he had a serious sinus problems. Accumulated sweat from his beard was running onto his chest like a leaky faucet. He wondered why he did not get a hair cut and shave his beard off. It would have been much cooler.

How far to the finish? He did not know. He had long lost count of the number of the Stations he had passed. It seemed like 25 or even 50? It did not matter, there were still runners in front of him and he was gaining.

Somehow he increased his speed again, still without breaking into a run. The even greater incline of the road was killing. He wondered how many cars would overheat driving up this slope. That probably accounted for the total absence of cars on the road.

Long unused muscles were protesting. His calf muscles were pleading for a rest. Seemingly the last of the fitter, but struggling runners, was passed, and it was clear in front as far as the winding road allowed vision in the bright moonlight. He must be in front. "God; please let the finish line be near."

Suddenly the rain forest cleared. The asphalt flattened out and provided car parking for around 50 or so cars. It was empty. About 20 metres beyond the asphalt was a large open-sided church building with a neon-lit cross atop the nipa frond roof. Further religious icons were illuminated inside among the rows of pews. All was surrounded by an area of well kept lawn at least two football fields in size. Wooden bench seats were spread neatly around the grassed area. Some had water drinking fountains nearby.

He looked for, but could not see any runners. He had done it. He had won gold for his country. The accolades could wait. He desperately sought out the comfort of one of the benches with a nearby water fountain. Whether he, or the camera bag, hit the bench quicker, he did not know. He did not care. His leg muscles screamed for relief. Only the pain of his back, shoulder muscles, and lungs screaming for air, allowed his brain some diversion away from his aching legs. He knew he had won, but at what cost. He just wanted to die.

Carefully and deliberately he checked his pulse. It was faster than a machine gun. Perhaps he was going to die? He knew he needed to lie down; then, looked at the uninviting wooden seat slats. If he did lie down, would he have the energy to get up and photograph the sunrise? Corinthians crossed his mind. "Death is swallowed up in victory. O death where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"

His dry throat was not much better. He reprimanded himself for not thinking about bringing bottled water. He decided to partake of the drinking fountain, despite all the dire warnings about the local water supply. Pushing his body off the seat, he walked robot-like, stiff-legged, to the fountain. Pressing the stainless steel handle, the water gushed out with sufficient force to allow him to wash his sweaty bearded face, and get some of the cool water into his hair without having to bend his aching back.

After a couple of quick mouth-rinses of the water, some sanity returned as he thought about the water quality. It tasted all right, but he had been caught out before drinking local water. His constitution had not been trained with the immunity of the locals.

"Damn the consequences," he thought, and quaffed the water down like a camel after eight days in the desert. Even Christ was offered water on his trek to the Cross. He could not recall reading about Christ suffering from diarrhoea while hanging on the cross. He took several of his shares of water until his belly felt quite bloated, then staggered back to the bench looking for a dry spot. His shorts, drenched with sweat, had saturated the previous position he had sat.

After a few minutes he remembered the real purpose of his mission. It was still dark but there was a small but perceptible lighting of the sky.

Pain accompanied setting up the cameras on the tripods. At least the seat he had chosen was facing in the right direction. The distant hills would make a marvelous backlit shadow like a cut-out in front of the rising sun. It was a pity there were no nearby trees which he could use to frame the photographs. To make it easier for his aching muscles he attached the remote cords to each camera. He could then remain seated, and snap off photos, or start the video when he needed.

Preparation complete, he went into total relaxation mood, with eyes closed. It was so peaceful here. None of the runners seemed to have made it this far. He did not ponder why; He had won.

The Church and surrounds remained empty of any living souls. Maybe a dead one or two were moving around, unseen to him anyway. He shivered. He put that down to the effects of the now cold sweat against his skin.

The rain forest cicadas switched on their welcome to the new dawn so suddenly, it startled him. It was as if all their alarm clocks had gone off at precisely the same moment. He decided that in cicada society, any cicada starting five seconds before time would obviously be beheaded by its colleagues, or at the very least, banished.

A few scattered clouds over the distant hills would also have made a nicer photo, but there were none. There is something special about the red and orange colours of a sunrise through cloud. Nature and God's work always proving much better than any Da Vinci painting.

The sky was noticeably lighter, yet the sun was not yet high enough to backlight the distant hills. The prospects of something special were not good. Fingers touching both buttons, he was ready for the first backlit shots. He had to be ready. At sunrise and sunset, this close to the equator, the sun seemed to rise or set in a matter of seconds. So sudden, it was almost like a light being turned on or off. The lighting of the clear sky showed it was going to be a beautiful fine day. Muggy, though he had almost become accustomed to that.

"Where the Hell was this sunrise?" he thought. "Surely the sun hadn't simply failed to get out of bed this morning? What was the old saying? As sure as the sun will rise tomorrow? Had he died with the exertion of winning a gold medal? Frozen at this pre-dawn point in time?"

The warmth to his back was an elixir from heaven. The blood flow was returning to his shoulder and back muscles. Though seated, he was now able to turn quite freely at the waist and neck without too much pain. Keeping his fingers ready on the remote buttons, he began to stretch his back and neck muscles as he knew he should have done in a proper warm-down.

He made each waist twist with a wider arc, sometimes twisting his neck with the coordinated waist swing, then against it, until he was almost turning his head and waist 180 degrees.

On one of these twists he noticed a bright shining orb just above the horizon and directly behind. He froze in that position.

"My God," he thought. "The sun has risen in the west. Was this some signal that the end of the world had arrived? Or, was it just him? Were things reversed in Heaven, or Hell, wherever he had been sent?"

He straightened, let the remote controls drop from his hand, stood up, and turned round, needing to shield the bright glow of the sun from his eyes with his hands. His cameras were pointing the wrong way!

Shaking his head to clear the stupid thoughts away, he knew there had to be a rational explanation. But what was it? He had entered through the eastern gate, climbed Mt. Matina and set up on the flat top as suggested.

Finally it dawned on him. The road could not go straight up because of the slope. It had to climb steadily around the side. The length was just enough to do a 180 degree half circle, and that had taken him to the western side of the mountain.

He was too exhausted and disappointed to bother with any photos of the intricate displays of the Stations of the Cross on his much slower descent down the road.

He had barely exited the Mt. Matina entry gate when his stomach began its growling. The thankful appearance of a taxi enabled him to be quickly whisked back to his hotel. He barely made it to his room before he had to thrust his head over the toilet, and disgorge his energy giving breakfast.

Tomorrow would be another photo opportunity, but not for him. Charlie Edwards chose to stay in bed, partially to ease the aching muscles. Mostly to be within a few metres of the precious white porcelain toilet bowl. The training he had done before he departed may have strengthened his mental and general physical constitution, but not that of his stomach.

Charlie thought about how easily certain perceived facts are shattered. All these years he would have sworn on a pile of bibles that there were 13 Stations of the Cross. Perhaps the next thing he would discover was that a woman was one of the 13 at Christ's final supper. Maybe this was why he had suffered so many misfortunes in his life. And, once again, was probably being punished for missing Station of the Cross number 14.

# **********

# TRAVELLERS

"Do you believe in God?"

"What?" Brian answered in surprise. He had heard the question clearly, simply not believing his ears. He felt his face grimace as he turned to look at the co-traveller sitting next to him on the bench seat of the packed ageing train commuter carriage.

"Do you believe in God?" repeated the stranger.

Prepared this time; and now consciously leaning further away from his questioner, he thought about his response and how he should react. Over many years of train commuting he had suffered many weird or obnoxious characters seated beside him; some drunk, some smelling unwashed. Packed work commuter trains gave no opportunity to select who you wanted to be next to, seated or standing. He preferred to travel in silence.

"A strange question to be asking a stranger," he replied.

He quickly glanced up and down at the questioner; about the same age as himself, he looked normal, completely normal, even boringly so; just another suit on any carriage any day of the week.

"Yeah," the stranger replied. "But a good conversation starter."

"Bloody Hell," thought Brian. "Another Jesus freak; and the aisle too crowded with standing passengers to move into." Over the years of train commuting he had his share of Jesus freaks, but this was the most direct approach. Most would open with a normal easy every day comment, expanding into wider topics; then ambushing you just when you felt relaxed about it all.

"Personal choice isn't it?" He realized he had replied, though he had not meant to.

The stranger nodded slightly and paused for a time.

"You know we make billions of personal choices during our lives," the stranger went on. "Who we marry. Where we work, and live; even what we're going to have for breakfast, lunch or dinner."

Brian was wishing he had ignored the first question. Now it seemed he was going to get a sermon. It had been an enjoyable day to this point. He drew a deep breath. As he exhaled, thoughts about luckier times flashed through his mind of times when attractive females shared the hard well-worn leather bench seats At least this seat had not suffered the senseless razor-blade vandalism of an idiot. The inside of the carriage looked like it had been recently cleaned of the moronic taggers work.

"And all those choices we make, even the little ones, always affect other people even though we don't realize it. Some decisions could end a person's life."

"Yes, I guess you're right," replied Brian courteously and cautiously. You could never guess at the reactions some freaks might have. He had never suffered any violence from any, only the pushy persistence of a salesman with a foot in the door. Should he force an exit move into the already crowded aisle now and get out at the next station to avoid being with this person? He could catch the following train in 15 minutes. Then he worried that maybe the guy was going to get out too, feeling he had a foot in the door. Others had. Then what?

The stranger went on. "Think about it. If everyone took a cut lunch to work, all those take-away places would go out of business and there'd be thousands out of work, thousands less commuters who work in the food business wouldn't be travelling, the trains wouldn't travel as frequently, therefore less rail staff, and even more unemployed."

The guy might be a complete dork but his comments were deeply thought over. Sub-consciously Brian nodded his agreement, then, wished he had not. He was trying not to encourage him but he kept getting self-trapped into answering.

"Those choices then can be life or death to some people."

Brian cast him another quick glance. The stranger did not look like a mad axe murderer, but what did a standard axe murderer look like? Perhaps the guy was some sort of lay-preacher.

The train pulled into another suburban station. An equal number of people embarked to replace those disembarking. Damn. Still no easy escape route. His mind drifted back to the time a slim very attractive brunette, about his age, sat next to him for nearly the whole journey. He smiled thinking of her face. "Dianne," she said. "Call me Di, but I won't."

He had quickly noticed Di was not wearing a wedding ring and the conversation flowed easily over the 30 minute train journey. Arrangements were made to meet for lunch the next day, which he thoroughly enjoyed; then agreed to meet again, cautiously swapping only work phone numbers.

She had got off the train at Roseland's Park, two stops before he did. After a couple of lunch dates she agreed to a date that Friday night. They would meet midway in a wine-bar of one of the local suburbs.

After work that Friday, the carriage, as usual, was over-crowded, many standing shoulder to shoulder. During one of the station stops, and shuffling of the passengers, he saw her almost the length of the carriage away. She had not seen him. Though he tried, he could not move closer to her. When the train arrived at Roseland Park, her destination, the crowd moved for the door, he too pushed his way through and disembarked. He could catch a later train. By the time he had forced his way through the crowded station exit-gate, he was a long distance behind so he started to jog.

He had nearly caught up when a tall, well dressed man accompanied by four children stepped on to the footpath. The children were all under eight years old. They ran forward screaming "Mummy," and quickly surrounded her, cuddling in. She picked up the youngest toddler and walked toward the man. Brian was just within earshot when he heard her say to the man. "Oh I love you so very much," and gave him a long passionate kiss.

Brian made a quick U-turn, and unseen made his way back into the station. That evening, with Chinese take-a-ways on the table, and watching a rental DVD, he wondered if she had turned up for the date. She had phoned several times over the next few days, but he had given his secretary instructions of a no-contact message for her. He never saw her on the train again. Dammit.

Whether the stranger had continued talking or not, Brian was not aware, having been temporarily in his own space. Another station came and went.

"Penny for them?"

"What?" Again Brian was startled.

"A penny for your thoughts. Isn't that the old saying? I suppose it should be five cents now though."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry."

"You were away with the fairies for a while there."

"Yeah. Sorry about that." Brian mentally kicked himself. Now he had stupidly apologized to this intrusive and pushy God- freak. "I was just reminiscing about an event that happened about 12 months ago." Damn. There he was, doing it again, effectively inviting further questions and conversation.

Another station; another stop. The standing passenger numbers thinned, some existing passengers pushing quite forcefully to take over the few vacated seats. He scanned his eyes over the fewer standing passengers. A familiar face caught his eye.

"My God it's her."

"What?" said the stranger.

"Damn." He felt confused. He had wanted to see her again; but then again, he did not. His heart skipped a beat. She looked even more beautiful than she did the last time he saw her. Her good looks were attracting the stares of quite a few males. Torn between a feigned anger about her misleading him about her relationship status, and his embarrassment at not being at the meeting place, he was undecided what to do. She had caused him quite a few weeks of restless sleep He put his head down so he could not be easily seen. Subconsciously his mind had decided for itself that hiding was the best self-protection.

The stranger, thankfully, had gone silent. Could he maintain this head down posture until she got off in two more stops? How could he explain his posture to his uninvited chatty co-traveller? Dammit. Why should he have to? This was becoming a really shitty day.

The next station came and went and there were even fewer passengers. Brian did not look up to see if she had found a seat or not; though he wanted to. He kept his head down fighting against his wish for a quick glance.

"Aren't you going to offer a lady your seat?"

He knew it was her immediately he heard the voice. He guiltily and slowly turned around and sat up.

"Yes," she said. "It's me, Di, just in case you forgot my name. Are you hiding down there to avoid me?"

"No," he lied. "Sort of dozing off." He wanted to say something nasty about her misleading him, but could not.

"What happened to our date? You never turned up. I felt such a darn fool hanging around that wine-bar, waiting, while every drunken lecher in the place tried to pick me up. Then you never answered any of my calls to your work. I was quite upset for a few weeks."

The train started to slow for the next stop. Brian felt relieved.

"Well. Are you going to get off and explain yourself? You can catch the next one."

Hell, Brian thought. She's pushy.

"Of course. There's a few things I'd like you to iron out too."

He nodded at the God-freak as he stood and stepped over his legs.

"We haven't finished our conversation," said the stranger forcefully.

"Pardon?" asked Brian, unsure if he had heard correctly.

"We haven't finished our conversation," said the stranger with even more force.

Brian looked at the stranger's eyes. A strange chilling expression in the God-freaks eyes caused Brian to shudder briefly. It was as if an ice-cold breeze had run down under the back of his shirt collar. Instinctive reaction made his spine straighten. He ignored it after a moment. He had other worries on his mind. He followed Di and dismounted to the Roseland Park platform just before the doors closed too quickly for some disembarking passengers.

He did not resist as she took his hand and they climbed the few stairs to the roadway level parking area. In fact it felt quite natural.

The sudden appearance of the same tall man he had seen twelve months ago stepping on to the footpath, caused him to stop. The same four children, now a year older, stood beside the man who had a mystified look on his face as his eyes flashed between Brian and his companion.

He quickly released the held hand, and took a step back in case the male, much bigger than him, jumped forward with fists swinging.

"G'day Dave," said Di. "I wasn't expecting to see you here. Meet Brian."

Oh Hell, thought Brian. He does not know she's been playing around, and she doesn't seem to care anyway. What had he got himself into?

"Hi Di. Just waiting for your sister. She's meant to be on this train," replied Dave. "You're not very often on the same one."

"G'day kids. Where's my cuddle?" said Di.

The four children immediately ran forward calling out "Hello Aunty," and cuddled her as she bent down.

"Ah. Here she comes now," said Dave. They all looked in the direction of the station exit. The four children ran off in the direction of their Mum, now about 15 metres away, cuddling and kissing her as she walked guiding them; again picking up the youngest.

Brian looked at the approaching female and then again at Di. From this short distance it looked like the same person. Only when she joined the group did Brian notice the new arrival was perhaps two or three years older with a slightly different hair style, though identical in colour. She immediately walked up to her husband.

"Ooh I still love you too much," she said, and gave her husband a long and passionate kiss.

For Brian, the penny dropped. His head drooped and nodded backwards and forward.

"And who's this then?" said the new arrival.

"Brian," answered Di. "Brian, this is my sister Belinda. She works in advertising."

"Sisters," he said. "That explains a few things."

Belinda held out her hand and gave a good firm handshake.

"Well I hope you're coming to our place for dinner," said Belinda. "I need everybody's opinion on our new ad campaign that starts around 7:30 pm tonight, after the 7:00 o'clock news. It's Friday, daylight saving, and we've all finished work early, so you can stay up late can't you Brian?"

"Gee," started Brian.

"Belinda," said Di. "Brian might already be busy. Had you thought about that?"

"Actually, I'm not, so..."

"Well it's all settled then," said Belinda.

"Come on, we've got an eight-seater, we can all pile in," said Dave.

# \----------

While the standard domestics were being done, Brian explained the identification farce of 12 months previous, much to the amusement of Di. While the children were being fed early, Brian and Di sat outside on the broad sun-deck, listening to the birds in the adjoining Roseland Park bush reserve. When the children were bedded it coincided with the completion of the cooking of a lovely lamb roast, and perfect vegetables. The easy flow of the nice wine over dinner made the chat flow just as easily, and the evening passed quickly. The mistaken identity problem was raised many times, each time seeming funnier the more the wine was consumed

At 6:45 pm Belinda turned on the TV with the sound muted yet keeping the remote-control close as they continued their conversation.

Brian glanced at the screen just as the 7:00 pm news started with the introductory music and a still photograph shown on the screen. He sat back suddenly and pointed at the silent screen.

"My God! That's him!" said Brian.

"Who?" asked Di.

"You know. The one I was next to on the train."

Belinda quickly turned up the volume to hear the announcer.

"We open this evening with tragic headline news. A murderous rampage occurred a few hundred metres past the Roseland Park station in the northern suburbs earlier this evening. Anyone who can identify this man from the mobile-phone photo, or advise his where-a-bouts, should contact police immediately. Do not approach him; he is armed and very dangerous."

The screen turned back to the newsreader with the photo now on the top right of the screen.

"He is believed responsible for the deaths of at least 16 people this evening with 16 more suffering wounds and injuries admitted to hospital."

"The rampage began when the rail traveller shot dead the passenger sitting next to him. He then shot dead another six passengers in the carriage before pulling the emergency cord. The sudden braking of the train caused his shooting to become inaccurate. People fleeing outside the train were randomly shot, and a further five died with 16 wounded. The fleeing suspect barricaded himself in a nearby house bordering the Roseland Park bush reserve. Four of the six occupants were slain with an axe. Two students escaped by jumping from upstairs windows."

"Witnesses described the man's actions as irrational, apparently screaming, 'We haven't finished our conversation,' between each fusillade of shots."

"The Armed Offenders Squad was quickly on the scene, and the suspect exchanged in a short but frantic gun-battle as they tried to set up a perimeter. When they finally entered the premises, he had gone."

Brian watched transfixed to the TV as a figure walked to the newsreader and handed her a note. She quickly scanned it and returned to face the camera.

"It seems the police no longer require any information as to the where-a-bouts of the suspect. His body has been found about 300 metres inside the bushy area of the Roseland Park Reserve, close to the scene of the shoot-out. It appears he had succumbed to wounds received during the shoot-out."

"We will be crossing to our reporters at the scene for an update as soon as links are established. The management and staff wish to advise that everybody's thoughts and prayers are with the families after such a tragic day. We will be crossing to the scene later." The newsreader then went on to the next item.

"No," said Di. "Not the guy sitting next to you?"

"Yes," he replied shuddering. The same cold wind he felt earlier was rushing down his back.

# **********

# BIRTHDAY DRINKS

"You obviously haven't been told what's happened."

I turned toward the female voice. An attractive petite brunette had a hand on my friend's shoulder to get his attention. We had both been watching for my bus to arrive.

Bob turned, and looked at her, a beaming smile on his face.

"Hi. No. What's happened? Oh, this is Jim by the way."

A brief glance in my direction was followed by a quick nod. "Hello." Then she pulled Bob aside.

"Your Mum guessed I'd find you here," she said before walking out of earshot. They leaned toward each other, partly to overcome the sound of the passing traffic, and to keep their conversation private.

I feigned disinterest in what was happening but noticed Bob's face change from happy to sad. Having been class-mates through high school and spending so much time together with his family, I felt I knew all his expressions. This one showed deep concern.

He gave the attractive young lady a kiss on the cheek, and returned, head nodding from side to side.

"Something wrong?" I asked.

"Yeah, dammit. Tonight's drinks for your birthday will have to wait I'm afraid. I've gotta urgently get some things organized and get them to Mum."

"Everybody O.K?"

"Sort of, I hope. That was Melanie, a nurse who works for Mum and Dad's doctor. She's just got off work and Mum asked her to grab me coming out of work. Some sudden unexpected problems I'm afraid."

"Oh Hell, sorry mate," I said.

"Look, I'd still love a drink though, but later," said Bob.

"Once I've run around, picked up some stuff she urgently needs, then, visiting and so on, I'll probably need a few drinks. Hell, can't miss the 30th birthday. So, I'll pick you up later."

Bob still lived with his parents.

"No worries, I'll be ready."

"Probably around 7:30 p.m."

"If you don't feel up to it, I won't be offended," I said. "We don't have to go anywhere."

Feeling he needed more than a handshake, I put my arms around him, and patted his back in as masculine a fashion as I felt comfortable with. I hoped there were no work colleagues nearby.

He looked lost and lonely as he turned and walked to his car. My bus had arrived.

All the way home, and through my after-work shower, I kept thinking about the possible health problems his Mother might have. Both his parents were dearer to me than any uncles and aunts. Then again, maybe I had guessed wrong. I had presumed it was his Mother. It could be his Father, Bob had not said which.

The doorbell rang promptly at 7:30 p.m. Bob looked seriously worried.

"C'mon," he said. "We'll have a few drinks at my home. We can sink a few too many, get really pissed, and you can sleep over just like old times."

I let the silence dominate during the drive. He would tell me what had gone wrong when he was ready.

"I'm really sorry," said Bob. "There were so many unexpected panics this afternoon."

We pulled into the driveway. Only the front outside light was on. He ushered me into the dimly lit lounge.

Bright lights suddenly flashed on around the room, mixed with yells of "Surprise." A chorus of 'Happy Birthday' started as I gazed around the room at 20 or so workmates. Bob's and my out-of-town parents were standing behind an enormous icing covered cake.

"Thought we'd forgotten eh?"

# **********

# TECHNOLOGY FOR THE ELDERLY

"Hello."

"Mum, Gary here. Just thought I'd phone and see how you are."

"Oh, hello, Gary. Nice of you to phone. I've been quite well you know."

"S'pose you've got a busy day as usual?"

"Oh yes. There's always something happening. Mary, from next door, has just popped in, and I'm gonna make a cuppa for us both." She smiled as she saw Mary looking at her

"I really feel bad at times that I can't visit you more often. But the 500 odd kilometers is a bit far to come just to pop in."

"I know. But it's always nice to hear from you." She pulled a small stool out from under the coffee table, and sat.

"We'll try to make a visit next Christmas break though. We're really sorry we didn't make it last Christmas. But you know teenage kids. Last year they wanted to visit Disneyland; next thing, they want to see something else, and suddenly all the time's gone."

"I know dear, I had children once."

"I realise we haven't seen you for over two years, but we'll really try and come next Christmas. Maybe stay just long enough to take you out for dinner on your 85th birthday."

"That'd be nice."

"We'll bring you something useful that you can use. I bet you've found the microwave handy."

"Oh yes, I use it all the time."

"You had so much bench space, that's why I bought that little bench-top front-door deep freeze. A good height so you don't have to bend down. With the sliding drawers it's so handy to get at the stuff inside. You can buy the frozen stuff when it's on special. Saves heaps of money. Or even freeze some of your special cooking."

"I do use it. But the shops and the green-grocer are so close though, and you know I like fresh, and get home delivery."

"I really wish you'd sign up for the internet and learn about email. Then the little note-book computer I gave you would be properly used. I hope you're writing memories and family history like I asked you."

"Oh yes. The computer's perfect for the little coffee table with the skinny wooden legs that you bought me," her eyes glanced over the small empty coffee-table where she was sitting.

"I know your place is always spotless, but just remember to keep it in the computer case; keeps the dust out."

"It's always in the case," her eyes darted under the table to the notebook computer confirming it was in its case.

"Well Mum. Sorry. Gotta rush. We'll probably see you in a few months. I'll ring again soon. Say hello to Mabel for me."

"It's Mary."

"Whatever. O.K Mum. Love you. Bye."

"Bye Darling."

"Who was that?" asked Mary.

"Just my son, Gary. As always, too busy."

"I hear from my lot about every six weeks or so. Generally a few days after my birthday, which they always forget."

"The same with mine. I haven't seen them for over two and a half years."

"My nearest are only 30 kilometres away. I haven't seen them in 18 months."

"All right. What was I doing?"

"Getting me a lovely cuppa tea with some of your lovely home-made shortbread biscuits, I hope. Best in the world to dunk. I used to dunk the ginger-nuts, but even they now seem too hard."

"Of course. Now. I'll get the jug boiling first. This lovely old silver teapot was given to me by my Gran. Makes the best tea. Gary's wife is always trying to throw it out. I use all the replacements she's bought as pot-plant holders though. Very handy."

"Your kitchen's well organized," said Mary.

"I use what I've got. The sliding drawers in the deep freeze are perfect to keep the crockery nicely sorted and away from the flies. I don't plug it in of course. Now the biscuits."

"I love those lovely old decorated square biscuit-tins."

"Yes. I store them in the microwave. The four fit nicely. I threw out that silly round plate and thing with stupid wheels. I don't plug that in either."

"I used to plug mine in. It kept perfect time. Then since the power cut, well I don't any more. Maybe I'll try and get some square tins too."

"Here we are; all done. Just put the tea-pot on the cork mat on the coffee table. The sugar and spoons are in the drawer below the table. I'll bring the cups, saucers and biscuits. No silver service with me, Mary."

"Such a lovely table," said Mary. "Such a pity the bottom of the back leg broke off."

"Yes. But apart from the fact that it juts out a little bit, the notebook computer was the perfect thickness to put under it to balance it properly again."

"Too true. Once you get to our age you have to adapt to use whatever you've got."

# **********

# COMING HOME

He was home. Permanently. Back in the country of his birth after twenty years away of overseas experience, or O.E. as new-speak shortened it. Overseas it certainly was. Experience? Yes, professionally, some of the best that he could ever get. Socially and psychologically? Both bitter and beautiful memories and experiences recalled. Bitter experiences were why he had left home in the first place. Now the same reasons prompted his return.

Whether he was financially better off now than when he left was really a toss of the coin. Either way he was still not rich. He had been, twice during his O.E. Twice circumstances conspired to take away what he had accumulated. The stock market crash took his first small fortune but left him with minimal debt as his borrowings were small. The second was through a relationship with a sociopath. He was soon stripped of his savings and left with a credit card debt greater than his annual income. The emptied accounts were just money, but the debt was a millstone around his neck. Worse, was being the ongoing victim of a sociopath's lies attempting to isolate him from clients, friends and family, then the realization that he had been set up with months of careful scheming. Only the support of a few remaining loyal friends who knew him better, and knowledgeable professional help, prevented a complete melt-down.

That was history and he was moving on. Now, sitting in this small hotel budget accommodation room, he really had only completed a skewed circle. He was not quite back home, as the big city accommodation was too expensive; but it was only an hour away, or two hours if the traffic was slow. Home, for now, at least for the short tem, was a rural township that had grown out of servicing the farming community, not as a result of urban sprawl. Not one set of traffic light to be seen, and the one round-a-bout all ready causing traffic problems. Still, it was only minutes to the beach.

He had seen enough of the multi-million population style city life, and the big business that went with it. There, too many smiling faces did not reflect true feelings; too many words said one thing, but meant another. Well gone was the age when a man's word was his bond. Now, back-stabbing, not skill, took a man to the higher paid positions.

School and the university life both still held some good memories. As an architectural graduate, the OE was supposed to stand him in good stead. In the large overseas firms, office politics reigned over skill, originality, ideas or practicality; while in his later stint in private practice, clients wanted champagne ideas on beer budgets. It was flat beer at that.

In the short term after his return, he had enough finances to get a cheap car, find office premises and stay in budget accommodation for a few months if required. But in just two weeks he could see himself falling into bad habits. Good breakfasts and dinners were available at the hotel, but not at quite such budget prices. His room provided a refrigerator and simple cooking facilities; he just simply hated washing dishes. So it was easy to accept restaurant cooking, at their price.

The next bad habit was having a couple of beers late in the afternoon with some of the regulars in the public bar. This was easy to justify in his mind. It was all public relations and self advertising. Any PR was better than none at all. Mostly farmers and grey collar men who worked with their hands; men of the earth. Initially he was the interloper and the talk was polite, but restrained, even though he stood back and just listened mostly. After a few days he was accepted as one of the regulars and was eventually included in groups who reverted to the regular subjects.

The fact they all called him Rod rather than Rodney was relaxing. In the high pressure business world, when first names were used, it had always been Rodney. His parents and siblings had always used Rod. Perhaps he had found a new family here.

Truck and bus drivers, farmers, road workers, mechanics, all those providing the spine on which any community existed were here. All existing to follow their horses, rugby team and reminisce about what had been or nearly was.

One, Tim, was a mechanic at a local garage; and in fact owned the service station, garage and the building in which it operated. Rod had walked past the building a few times, looking as he frequently did, with his professional eye. Situated on the corner of the main road and a side street, it had seen several additions to the original structure over the years. The forecourt of petrol pumps was wide and across the corner by the round-a-bout. On the main road, the left side of the building, had the wide doors for the two grease and oil change service bays, hoists and pits. Around the corner on the side street was the main entry, a small office and the garage repair area. Again it was two vehicles wide but three deep.

Topping the garage section, above the ground floor, were rooms or offices, seemingly empty. To the right of the building on the side street was a large two-metre high mesh fenced area, about the same area as the garage. Barbed wire on the fence top gave a big disincentive to scale it. A padlock secured the entry gate. The area was filled with car bodies piled three high in some areas. In many cases the hoods were crushed, and the top cars of each stack did not seem very stable or secure. The chains holding the upper cars to those below were probably more for appearances.

Two days later, on his next walk-a-bout, the yard was empty. The concrete had been swept of debris but was stained from oil and other leaking residue from the car bodies.

A week later he walked by the garage again. This time he stopped by the wire fence. Already there were two cars there, both badly smashed.

"G'day mate."

Rod looked round to see Tim approaching, grey coveralls on and wiping his hands on a grey oil-stained towel. Tim was about the same height as he, but slimmer, with long shaggy-cut straight brown hair.

"Hi Tim, I see you've already got a couple of new wrecks in the yard. What happened to the last lot?"

"Every three or four months or so, the scrap dealers pick them up after I tell them the yard's getting full," replied Tim.

"What's the story? How come they get here?"

"Earns me an extra few dollars for what would be an empty space. These cars are the result of road smashes along the coast here, even some abandoned relics. The 'towies' drop 'em off here as a convenient bulk collection point for later on. Boy we've seen some real smashed up stuff over the years. A lot of 'fatals' as you can presume from the condition of the cars."

"None look good enough for me to drive," said Rod with a grin.

"Yeah, I been thinking about that," replied Tim with a serious face. "I know you've been looking for wheels as you said."

Rod nodded. "You got something?"

"Yeah. Maybe. I was gonna mention it if I saw you later today. Actually it's here now. You wanna come and have a look?"

"Sure."

Tim turned and walked back into the repair shop. Rod followed.

"Up on the hoist there," Tim pointed. "Bloody good little Honda Civic. Nine years old."

"What's wrong, how much and all that?"

"Silly young bugger got it from his granny three months ago, after she died. She'd bought it new. Bugger all mileage on the clock. Less than twenty thousand k's."

"Why's it here?"

"His mates and another lot in a 4-wheel drive did a cross- country run over the hilly back area of a farm without the farmer's permission. Left gates and everything open. Cattle and sheep got out everywhere, caused havoc on the main road. But his Honda's no 4-wheel drive. Hit a rock, busted the sump, split the fuel tank and he abandoned it on the farm."

"Doesn't sound too promising to me," said Rod.

"Didn't look too promising then either. A bit of rain, a bit of a mud slide, and the car was over its axles in mud on the side of a hill. The insurance assessors looked at it where it was and wrote it off, paid the kid out, and offered the car to the farmer in compensation for the cattle escaping. When he got the offer he went up to the back hills to look at the car before deciding what to do. There'd been more rain, the mud had washed away and the car was sitting high and dry on good pasture 50 metres further down the hill, looking like it had just been washed. He thought he could just drive it away so he accepted the insurance offer."

"All that glitters eh?"

"Shitters more like it. When he discovered the arse had been torn out of its bottom he phoned me to see if I wanted it for spare parts, conditional on me towing it off the farm."

"What'd you pay for it?"

"Nothin. Towed it back here, stuck it on the hoist, steam cleaned the bottom and checked it out. Needed a replacement sump and fuel tank to be good as new; well as good as when granny had it anyway."

"What'd that cost you?"

"Same day I towed it in, the 'towies' dropped in an accident vehicle. A write off. Hood crushed by logs off one of those big loggers. Poor buggers didn't know what hit 'em. Same year and model as the Honda from the farm. Apart from the hood, bonnet and boot, which were crushed, everything ran like a Swiss watch."

"You didn't."

"I did. Took the sump, drive shaft, fuel tank, and put them onto the farm Honda a couple of months ago. Been using it as the garage run-a-bout since then. But it was only meant to be an interim measure until we replaced the old ute we had with the big tray. You can't fit a spare engine into the back of a five door sedan. We needed something that could. Now we've got the new ute, the car is surplus."

"What's it on the hoist for?"

"Up for Certificate of Fitness check, so we've just put new brake pads on. Its still got six months rego on it too."

"How much?"

"Well, here's the second part of the deal if you want it."

Rod nodded.

"You're after space to set up an office and maybe accommodation, right?"

Rod nodded again.

"All that space above the garage and workshop are empty rooms. Even lived there myself for a few years after I got married. But after our second kiddy was born, and the older one was looking for a yard to play in, it was too risky that he might start climin' round on those car bodies; so we bought a house with a back yard, and closer to the beach. Then an old semi-retired accountant leased it for three years for his practice and lived there before he fully retired and shifted to the beach. Left most of his stuff there, including desks and lots of furniture. Said it wouldn't fit into his little house."

"Sounds promising," said Rod.

"There's a separate front door for your office. Put your shingle over that. Customer parking in the front of the car wreck fence. Verandah along the back of the building with an excellent vista over the wrecked cars." Tim laughed at his intended joke. "Even a staircase from your kitchen down to the wreck-yard for a guided tour among the wrecks. But don't."

"Okay. Why?"

"Insurance. Sometimes at night some silly buggers climb the fence to see what they can steal; stuff from the cars like radios, speakers and stuff. Even though they're trespassing I could still be liable if one of the cars falls on top of them."

"You're joking."

"No I'm not. The wreck area is deemed unsecured, but if there is someone living in the premises above then I'm okay."

"Does it mean I'm bound to be there twenty-four hours?"

"No, it only has to be leased to a tenant who also lives on the premises. You can come and go as you please."

"And if there is a trespasser?"

"Shoot the bastard," Tim laughed again. "Nah, do nothing, call the police if you want. They'll rush here like lightening in two or three days, or a month or so if they don't have to do any work."

This time Rod grinned.

"Whenever there's been someone living there, there's never been a theft from the yard. The fact they may be spotted is a deterrent. It's such a small community here, everyone knows everyone else; too easy to be identified. Hell, the yard lights up like a Christmas tree when it senses movement."

"So will that wake me up too?"

"Nah, not for small things like cats and dogs. Matter of fact a small cattle dog has taken up residence in the yard in the last few days. Soon after the yard was cleared. Must've got through a small hole in the mesh. It disappears every now and again for a day or two, then comes back. Seems to be a good little watch-dog though, so I haven't had the heart to throw it out. You can if you want, otherwise; it's okay with me."

"Okay with me, that's if I accept your offer." said Rod.

"I toss it a bit of meat each morning and keep the bowl by the gate filled with water. It doesn't growl at any of us any more, even wags its tail when we talk to it."

Tim walked out of the garage. "Wanna see the offices now?'

"Sure, why not."

Tim went into the service station office and grabbed a set of keys off the wall.

"Don't worry if it's a bit dusty, we'll have it all cleaned out for the weekend if you want it. Basically it's fully furnished. Fridge, microwave and good stove in the kitchen. Even a dishwasher eh? Anyway, you'll see."

"Got a buzzer down here with a two way inter-com. Needs a new battery though. Just press the button on your end and it unlatches the door and the client can come up."

Rod followed Tim up the stairs and into a large lounge-cum office area with desk, cabinets, book-shelves, even comfortable lounge chairs, side tables, and table-lamps. The other rooms were equally well furnished. Queen sized bed in the main bedroom and singles in the others.

"Marvellous, Tim. How much?"

"Lets check out the car first, but you can take this without having to buy the car."

By the time they returned, the white Honda Civic was off the ramp and parked at the doorway.

"The keys are in the ignition, take it for a whirl," said Tim.

Rod got in, made a slight adjustment to the seat and the rear view mirror, connected the seat belt, put the gearbox in neutral, and started the car. It was an automatic gearbox; he was pleased about that.

He put it in drive, let off the hand-brake, and slowly accelerated onto the side-road. There was no traffic to his front, so he pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The rear wheels did a bit of a spin and the car accelerated away.

Twenty minutes later Rod was back at the garage.

"Fantastic little car Tim, how much? Remember I'm not a millionaire."

"Do you know what the discounters' list price is?"

"No idea."

"Around $14,000."

"Hell, sorry mate, I can't afford that."

"Not asking you to. If you sign up for a two year lease on the offices upstairs, pay your own power and phone and pay me $180 a week rent, you can have the car officially for $4,000 plus give my wife a cash payment of $1,000."

Rod quickly became aware he must have looked gob-smacked and consciously closed his mouth.

"Leasing the premises long term saves me a few thousand in insurance. Not many people want to sign up for 24 months."

"Tim, you're being too generous, especially on the car."

"I'm still making a good profit. The car cost me nothin' to buy and nothin' in parts, only labour."

Rod thrust out his hand. "You've got a deal on both counts."

Tim shook Rod's hand. "Welcome to our little town. You've signed a deal to stay at least two years."

"Suits me. Now I only have to find some work."

"Remind me to introduce you to Bill and Ben next time I see you for a drink. And remember, you'll need to send the Change of Ownership papers in and get a licence to drive in this country."

# \----------

The following weekend Rod shifted his belongings to his new digs above the service station and garage. As promised, the place had been cleaned thoroughly. The smell of anti-septic still hung in the air of the bathroom and toilet; other air fresheners had been liberally used in other areas.

The front door and its immediate surrounds had received a coat of bright white paint. Most surprisingly, where he parked his 'new' car, Tim had jerry-rigged a carport with a clear aluminium roof. He was sure council approval had not been sought for that. From above he could see his car through the clear Perspex roof, and another motion detector light had been set nearby.

Even more thoughtfully, a range of used but very clean crockery, cutlery, pots and pans were placed on the kitchen table with a welcoming note from Tim's wife Shirley. Rod had not yet met her, but he was sure he would. He would write a 'thank-you' note and send it with a half dozen bottles of wine later.

Next was a trip to the local supermarket where he bought up big, ready for a siege he thought. He liked to be ready for most things and always liked too much rather than too little. As well as a good supply of tinned dog-food he got a couple of mutton leg bones with a bit of meat on for the dog. He would boil them both as soon as he returned home. The dog would find it impossible to bury them in the concreted yard. He purchased three large feeding bowls for the dog, white for milk, green for water, and blue for food. He felt the dog too should benefit from his saving in not having to buy crockery.

The wide back verandah ran the full length outside the upstairs rooms on the inside of the capital L-shaped structure. Sixteen wooden steps led down to the wrecked car section.

There were now three cars in the yard. Rod placed two filled bowls on the step fourth from the bottom and the mutton leg bone on the sixth step. The Australian Shepherd watched him silently from its residence in the first arrived car on the block. Returning to the top, Rod sat; feet planted on the step below, and waited and watched to see if the dog would react to the aroma of the tinned meat and fresh water.

The dog eventually dropped lightly out of the wreck, jogged to the corner of the yard furthest from its home, squatted briefly to relieve its bladder, then ambled toward the steps.

"Ah. You're a bitch, not a dog," mumbled Rod.

Most of the dog's long haired coat was black, with a large white bib under its mouth running down the chest onto its front legs. The small area of white that showed between the ears ran back to a wide white sash that ran fully around its body. Small areas of white also showed on the back legs, and small rounds of tan showed under the ears.

It ambled closer, looking at him, sniffed the food and water; then up the two extra steps to sniff the bone. The previously small tail-wag became an exaggerated swing as the dog quickly scoffed the tinned food.

"That's too quick little one. If I ate that quickly I'd get indigestion, or heart burn."

The dog's eyes barely strayed from his as it now took a long drink of the water.

"I hope it was still cool for you."

The dog moved back up to the sixth step and began to sniff the bone.

"I hope I cooked it the way you like it."

Rod was surprised. The dog did not mouth the bone and take it away. It made itself comfortable on the sixth step and looked around the yard, then back to him occasionally.

Rod kept a quiet, but regular tone in his voice as he spoke to the dog about where he had been for the past few years, and how he had now come to be living above the garage. The dog kept glancing at him as he spoke, sitting with tail wagging, mutton bone still un-chewed, close to its front, and within reach of its mouth. Then Rod went silent. He looked around the yard, occasionally looking at the dog. At least five minutes passed before he started again.

"So, hello there. My name's Rod. Do you have a name? Have you got a collar? I'll have a look sometime if you let me. Maybe you've been micro-chipped. Perhaps I'll take you to the vet one day to find out. Get you a health check while we're there."

The dog gave a soft high whine as if responding.

"First though we'd have to give you a clean up. Your lovely long coat looks a bit matted. You know; good shampoo and brush. Make you look pretty. Certainly make you smell sweeter."

Another couple of soft high whines.

"Well, if you remember your name, pop upstairs and tell me sometime. I'm in most days. Most evenings too. Actually I'll be in every bloody evening. So if you want a social chat, drop by. Maybe we can have a nice bottle of milk together."

More soft short whines followed.

"Please excuse me. I have a few jobs to do. I'll catch up with you later."

Rod stood slowly, and the dog watched as he made his way along the balcony and through the back door.

Looking out the kitchen window, Rod saw the dog had picked up its bone and, tail wagging happily, was slowly making its way back to the car from which it came.

Arrangements for the telephone re-connection were made for the next day. The electricity was already on.

# \----------

Rod was already at the bar, with a sizeable group around two tables with high bar stools, when Tim arrived. He was followed by two men in their mid to late 40's, wearing just bush-singlets, shorts, despite the cooler air, and low-cut gumboots. They were obviously brothers.

"This is Bill and Ben I was tellin' you about," said Tim.

Rod suppressed the desire to make a 'flower pot men' comment, but could not suppress his smile.

"Pleased to meet you," he said as handshakes were made.

Bill was marginally taller, marginally slimmer and probably marginally older as well.

"Yeah, pleased to meet you too," both replied in unison.

"I understand you've got some work I can do for you."

"Yep," replied Bill. "Need some drafting for some houses we wanna put up on the farm. We got some rough drawings we made ourselves, but we've gotta formalise it, you know, red tape stuff. All to get building consent."

"Sounds good," replied Rod.

"Yeah, we've both been livin' in the old homestead since both the old wrinklies died." Ben had taken up the conversation. "Always lived there in fact. Now that we're both gonna get married, have our own families and all that stuff, we thought we better get our own houses."

"Built close enough together but not too close if you know what I mean," Bill said.

"I don't want him borrowin' me cup of sugar every day do I?" chuckled Ben.

Rod grinned, but doubted Ben recognized the obvious innuendo he had just made.

"He can buy his own. He never buys the groceries," Ben went on. "But your woman, she'll straighten you out boyo."

"That's what I'm hoping for every night," added Bill. Both of them laughed heartily.

"Local girls?" asked Rod.

"Nah," answered Ben. "We found a couple of gorgeous sisters, hard workin' family too. They're from the Philippines."

Rod closed his eyes unconsciously and lowered his head. 'There goes the farm,' he thought. Then looking up his mouth replied, "Oh really? Which part?"

"They were working in Manila in a big department store," said Bill. "Big responsibilities too, working on the cash registers."

Rod felt mixed emotions surging within him.

"You been there?" asked Ben.

"Too many times," answered Rod, hoping the disappointment did not show in his voice. "But I want to know about these houses."

The brothers both reached for their back pockets and withdrew folded A4 sheets of paper, giving them to Rod. Both were slightly soiled from frequent handling.

Tim grabbed a hand towel from the barmaid and wiped an area of the table dry.

Opening each carefully, Rod laid the basic floor plans on the now dry table.

The plans showed outside and inside walls drawn, wall lengths, and toilet, kitchen and bathroom locations. Certainly something he could work from. His emotional gut-wrenching had already started to decline.

"Not bad drawings fellas," he commented.

Both brothers shifted self-consciously, embarrassed, but obviously thankful for the compliment in front of their peers.

"What's the land like?" asked Rod.

"Dead flat at both sites and three hundred metres apart," answered Bill.

One house was a level and a half, the other a full two level.

"You know with a few adjustments you could save lots on your plumbing," offered Rod.

The brothers looked at each other, and then nodded back at him. "You're the expert."

"What did you want me to do?" asked Rod.

"Not the full architectural thing, just the drafting stuff."

"Okay, I can't give you and estimate of my fee at the moment, but it'll take a couple of weeks to get it all down pat for a builder to follow. I'd like to visit the farm first to check on north/south directions and so on. When can I do that?"

"Come up tomorrow if you like, no the next day. We'll tidy up a bit and you can stay the night."

"Couldn't tomorrow anyway. In the morning my shipment from overseas arrives. You know drafting board and all that stuff. But thanks, we'll see how things go after I arrive on the farm."

Telephone numbers were swapped, addresses and directions given, and then with the many others around the bar, they began a serious early evening of drinking. Rod left early in readiness for the delivery of his shipping boxes tomorrow.

The walk from the hotel to his new 'digs' was barely 100 metres. As he neared his door a short bark at the mesh fence reminded him of his new canine friend. The movement sensor picked him up, lighting up the car and his surroundings.

Rod detoured to the fence, crouched down and instinctively and unthinking wiggled his fingers through the mesh at the tail wagging dog. The dog cautiously leaned forward and sniffed his fingers.

He suddenly realised how stupid he had been. The dog could have had a couple of his fingers off in a second.

"You been waiting for me?"

The dog sat and responded with a couple of subdued high pitched whoops.

"Sorry, can't chat all night. Some phone calls to make. Visitors early tomorrow, so I'll try and get you an early brekky."

A couple of short whimpers and the dog turned and loped back to her car, tail wagging.

# \----------

Next morning Rod had showered and dressed by 7:30 am. The carriers were not due until 9:30 am. He made a coffee, and opened a can of dog food. He looked out the back window. The dog was seated in the yard looking up at him. When the dog realised he had been seen, the tail started wagging.

Rod exited the back door carrying a pitcher of water, his coffee, and the tin of dog food with a spoon stuck in the top. Putting his coffee on the top step he walked down and picked up the two containers. He re-ascended to the tenth step before putting them down and filling each. The dog stood at the bottom of the staircase, watching.

Then returning to the top step, he sat down, with his feet on the third to top step. He picked up his coffee. The dog had remained seated at the bottom.

"C'mon, breakfast is served."

The dog leapt up the first six steps, slowed, then, took the next four steps cautiously, never taking his eyes off Rod.

Rod said nothing as he sipped his coffee. The air was still a bit cool as he was in shadow away from the rising eastern sun. The dog had finished the food, slurped some of the water then sat on the ninth step, only three steps away from Rod's feet.

After about ten minutes of this silence, the dog gave a couple of little whoops.

"Good morning to you too."

Three more little whoops followed.

"You're welcome. Remember I'm gonna be busy this morning when the shippers drop off my gear."

"Whoop, whoop."

"Looks like it might be a warm day today. I'll try and give you cool fresh water a few times."

The dog's eyes just looked at him. It lay on its stomach, chin resting on its front paws, eyes moving to and fro over the yard and occasionally up at Rod.

Another ten minutes silence followed. The first rays of the sun had reached the furthest part of the yard of wrecked cars.

Rod made sure he was slow in his movement in standing up. He did not want to startle the dog with sudden movements. The dog slowly lifted itself up to being seated on its haunches. Rod was satisfied. It seemed that the trust was growing rapidly.

# \----------

Morning and the delivery passed quickly. Rod almost felt sorry for the two men running the boxes up the stairs as he ticked off the box numbers and directed them where to put the boxes. After their departure he opened selected boxes, set up the equipment he needed, and stored away what he did not.

It was well after sunset when he heard a couple of subdued barks at his back door. In his concentration on the work he was doing, he had totally forgotten the dog. He stopped mounting the paintings on the walls, and filled a large jar with milk. While the milk was getting a one minute heating in the micro-wave, he grabbed a handful of dog biscuits, slipping them into his pocket.

He interrupted the micro-wave at 59 seconds and removed the warm jar. The dog scampered away from the back door when he opened it, but only ran down eight steps. The security lighting flicked on, bathing them in light. Rod picked up the white milk dish, filled it with the warm milk and placed it on the third step. Slowly he sat on the verandah, his feet on second step, and waited. The dog cautiously climbed back to the fourth step and sniffed the bowl of milk on the third step, always watching Rod. After a couple of quick licks, the dog relaxed, climbed the extra step, and concentrated on the milk. After it was finished, the dog lay on its stomach, chin on its paws, only inches from Rod's feet. The security lights had switched off through lack of movement.

The cloudless night sky was barely lit by a quarter-moon to the east, just below the horizon, so the stars shone clearly. It was a little cool, but not unbearable. The milky-way looked so thick it was almost like a thin misty cloud stretching in a wide band from one horizon to the other.

After ten minutes, Rod slowly reached into his pocket. The dog did not move, but watched his every move. Extracting one biscuit he held it between two fingers and slowly extended his hand toward the dog. The dog sat up on its haunches and leaned forward to sniff at the biscuit. Carefully grasping the biscuit between its front teeth it pulled it from Rod's hand. Several pieces fell onto the step as the dog bit into it. After chewing the biggest piece taken on the first bite it quickly located the smaller pieces and gobbled them up; then looked up at Rod.

The next biscuit Rod broke into three equal size pieces, putting them on his open palm before he extended it toward the dog. Initially, acting cautiously, the dog carefully lifted a piece out of Rod's hand and quickly consumed that before taking the second and third pieces. Rod left his empty hand extended. The dog pushed its nose into Rod's hand, and climbing an extra step kept pushing Rod's hand in the direction of his pocket.

Rod grinned, reached into his pocket, grabbed a couple of extra biscuits, broke them into pieces and put them on the wooden balcony at the level he sat. Without hesitation the dog climbed to the step below him and began picking them up and chewing them one at a time. Slowly and softly Rod began to stroke the dog behind the head. The dog did not resist. When the last biscuit disappeared, the dog mounted the top step and sniffed at Rod's pocket. Rod took out the last biscuit and broke that likewise and held it in his palm again. While the dog was taking the biscuit pieces Rod stroked the back of its head with his other hand.

After finishing the last biscuit, the dog looked at him. Its long nose and mouth, from its Collie ancestry, moving slightly as its eyes switched looking from one eye to the other of Rod.

"It doesn't feel like you have a collar under that long hair of yours," said Rod softly. "So we can't get your name there."

The dog gave a soft bark in response.

"Maybe you'll let me call you Watcha. That's W.A.T.C.H.A. What do you think?"

A couple of soft barks were the reaction to the question.

"We agree then. Well, I can't just sit around yapping all night. Some of us have got to prepare for my first job here."

Rod slowly got to his feet, and equally slowly bent down to pat Watcha behind the head. She did not move away in fear.

"Goodnight then. I'll see you tomorrow."

Rod turned around to enter the back door, and Watcha gave a couple of low barks.

"I said tomorrow, now go and do your job." To his surprise, Watcha turned around and ran down the stairs into the yard. Rod closed the door behind him.

"Good progress," he said to himself.

# \----------

Next morning he grabbed Watcha's bowls and washed them. Watcha stood at his back door wondering what was going on. Rod emerged onto the balcony. "Sorry, can't hang around for a chat. Work to do." He lowered the filled bowls gently. He wanted to get to Bill and Ben's farm before midday. The directions had been a bit sketchy. The only certainties were the number of bridges he had to cross when travelling the country road, with numerous re-crossings of the same river. He had been told it was about an hour's drive, but the local area map showed it would be a twisty journey well into the ranges.

Once he found the turn-off for the road a couple of kilometers south, he headed into the hills. The bitumen soon gave way to metal. The road frequently narrowed to a single car width in some areas. His little Honda handled it beautifully. This was his first long drive in it, and the sound system proved to be excellent.

He began wishing Watcha had come with him, but realized she would not be ready for it yet. Besides, many farmers did not want 'townie' dogs on their properties.

Some of the bridges were small, covering some of the many streams which fed into the main river. He was told to count all the bridges, double and single lane. After crossing one larger bridge, he stopped in a small off-road area, and walked back onto the bridge. There was no traffic around here. Wearing his Polaroid sunglasses, he looked into the water and noticed numerous trout. A clearly defined path ran from the bridge to the river-side. This site solved one of his recreational hobbies; fly-fishing.

The importance of counting bridges, in the otherwise sketchy directions, turned out to make the instructions surprisingly precise. He easily found the farm; the current house set back about two hundred metres, and centrally located on a broad plateau was probably the only piece of flat land in the district. Turning into the shingle driveway, the climb was deceptively steep. He parked on the wide concourse next to a couple of farm quad bikes with trays on the back. The brothers, still in bush-singlets, shorts, and well-worn sox on their feet, were standing, waiting for him on the wide verandah of the beautifully maintained house. After handshakes, Ben pointed behind Rod.

"What do ya think of that."

Rod turned and saw the 90 degree vista of the area down to the coast with the sea stretching away in the distance. He had not realised he had climbed above the foothills. Some people would pay millions for a view like this, even with the isolation.

As though almost reading his thoughts, Bill said, "The landing strip is about 200 metres behind the house. Runs the length of the plateau."

Rod shook his head in disbelief. "Amazing. Best view I've ever seen from a country property." He turned around to look beyond the plateau behind the houses. The ranges rose high in the distance. That view too was almost as spectacular.

Rod's uneasiness, at the thought of their losing this property in a matrimonial settlement, returned. He wondered if he should relate his and other friends' experiences with some foreign women. The mixed emotions, which he thought he was well over, would not entirely dissipate.

"We don't own this," said Bill with a grin on his face.

"Not even the stock," Ben followed on in their double act.

"Just ours while we're alive, then it goes to the nieces and nephews, the kids of our two sisters," Bill picked up.

"We've only got a small house each in the town for when we retire," Ben went on, confirming the double act. "Even got small mortgages on those."

"They're rented out for enough to cover the costs," Bill added.

"Mum died eight years ago, it gutted our Dad. He went downhill quickly after that." said Ben.

"After we started dating these Filipina women, we realised we wanted to protect the assets and property for Mum and Dad's family. You know what I mean." Bill laughed as he spoke. "So we changed Dad's will before he died two years ago."

"You know there are a lot of silly buggers out there who've had their arses burned after marrying mail order brides. They'll act at loving you more than you can ever believe, and pleasing you like you're a lord. They get into the country and get their residency, maybe have a kid or two, stay with the husband long enough to qualify under the Matrimonial Property Act, then bugger off with half the assets." Ben now laughed, immediately followed by Bill. "Apparently they can be good wives the second time around with someone else that they choose."

"With us they'll get half of sweet bugger all," they said in unison.

Rod found himself laughing loudest. He wished he had met them several years ago to warn him. It confirmed that wisdom did not mean educational qualification.

They were inside soon after, enjoying cold mutton slices, and plenty of well prepared salads. Rod marveled at their culinary skills; then it was down to business. They examined his sketches of various aspects of the house constructions, and commented on his adjustments to their drawings and his suggestions. The afternoon passed quickly before they led him to the proposed sites. He asked about the sub-soils and base rock and they showed him the results of test diggings they had organized. He admired them for their nous. It was only their outward façade that seemed to show them as country 'yokels'. It would be too easy to underestimate these guys. They were smart. Rod even pondered if they played on other people underestimating them.

He apologised for not wanting to stay the night, but under the pretext of wanting to start their plans while they were still fresh in his mind, and wanting to get over the country back-roads before dark, he took his leave. After they learned he had a 210 cubic centimeter deep freeze, they stockpiled his car with the freshly bagged cuts of a whole sheep and various cuts of beef from their farm kills.

On his drive home he frequently burst into laughter. He who underestimated these guys would be a fool.

# \----------

It was after sunset when he got home. Watcha barked her greeting, wagging her tail wildly at his return. He opened one of the plastic bags of fresh meat, and pushed a large thawed raw beef steak through the mesh.

It took nearly half-an-hour to cart all the bagged meat upstairs. It had been carefully labeled and dated. It was a very thoughtful and complete gift to fill his deep freeze.

He briefly went outside to fill Watcha's green water container which he now put at his back door. She had no hesitation in drinking from it immediately he put it down, and remained non-reactive to his stroking her head. Then it was back inside to set the dish-washer and begin drafting on the freshly set up drafting table.

The hours passed quickly in his concentration on the task. On a necessary toilet break he noticed it had passed midnight. Time for bed. He had soon readied himself, and had a thought. He opened the window.

"Good night Watcha," he called out.

The dog responded with a once only bark.

He shut the window against the cold and fell asleep within seconds of crawling under the blankets.

# \----------

Next morning, after his shower and dressing, he took two plastic outdoor chairs, stored in a spare room, to the kitchen. Watcha had barked a couple of times at the back door to let him know she was there. Immediately he opened the door, Watcha scrambled away, but only to the top step. She watched Rod place a small table, left by the previous tenant, on the verandah next to his back door and a plastic chair each side. He folded a cheap throw rug and put it on the chair nearest the stairs.

Again he heated some milk and finished making his coffee before going outside again. Putting his coffee on the table, he filled the white milk bowl with warm milk and pushed it partly under the table. Sitting down on the rug-less chair he started sipping his coffee and watching Watcha's reactions. She stayed sitting at the top of the stairs.

"Well come on then."

Watcha trotted slowly to the bowl, looking at him while she smelled the milk before starting to drink. When she had finished, he leaned across and patted the chair several times, each time saying "Up." Eventually she jumped on the chair and, still standing, sniffed the rug. Then, turning circles several times as though wondering how to sit down, eventually she sat, resting her chin on her front legs and watched him with her big brown eyes.

Later that day Rod told Tim about the progress he had made with Watcha.

"Good choice for a name. Gives a job description too."

"She's not a dog Tim, she's a bitch.

"Oh. I never examined it."

"Dogs lift a leg Tim, bitches squat."

"I never thought about it, but I still call them all dogs."

Rod asked Tim if he could arrange for a flap to cut in the door allowing Watcha access to the upstairs rooms, and designed so the flap could be locked down when necessary.

"Mate, if you think you can get her to go inside, you're welcome. Safer I guess than having a car body falling on her. You know what; you've really gotta get a woman in your life."

"Take it on Tim as a mission in your life."

He laughed briefly. "Shirley and I just might do that."

Over the next few days he worked on Bill and Ben's project and paid cash to another of the drinking school, a carpenter, who put a two-way swinging flap on the door, with a bolt that could lock the swinging door in the up or down position. He put Watcha's chair next to his on the verandah, then was able to pat her, or put his arm over her while having his coffee. She just watched him carefully during these changes. She showed no objection when he put the collar on her. Maybe she did not notice it over her thick wiry fur. Her new collar included a small plate with her new name and his address.

The next day, bolting the flap up, he put the food and drink bowls inside the door. She nosed through the gap, before starting to eat inside, then, sitting on another throw rug he had put inside a dog basket he purchased, and placed near the door. Rod dropped the flap down but did not lock it. Watcha panicked and charged at the flap which easily gave way. After easily passing through it, and waiting outside for a few minutes she re-entered, exited again, and re-entered, settling on her rug. She realized she could come and go as she pleased. After that he left it down, swinging and unlocked. She could pop out and do her rounds of the car-yard to see all was right and proper.

Now, each morning when he got up and went to the kitchen she was either standing by the bench waiting for breakfast, or tucked in her dog basket under the small kitchen table. He did not care how ridiculous it might seem to outsiders if they heard him talking to the dog. It made Watcha relax. She frequently followed him from room to room, even sitting on his slippered feet as he worked at the drafting table, or sitting next to him on the lounge as he watched T.V. She allowed him to pick her up and carry her from the lounge to her own basket when he went to bed.

Over the next two weeks, six more car-bodies had been delivered. Watcha had only disappeared twice. Once was overnight, the other for several hours. Rod knew a big test with Watcha was yet to come. He had purchased two plastic 40 litre storage containers to wash her in the vet recommended shampoo, and then rinse her.

His drafting for Bill and Ben was complete He still had to receive answers about the availability of some materials for his report, which included a suppliers list and cutting sizes. This enabled everything to be pre-cut before delivery.

His intention to give Watcha a bath that day received a big setback through an entirely unrelated incident. He put a lead on her, and she happily trotted down the front steps on the lead. Rod was going to take her for a walk. She showed no objection until she levelled with the car-yard. Realising she was on the wrong side of the fence, and separated from her precious car-yard, she panicked, jerked the lead out of his hands, and sped around the side of the fence trailing the lead, before squirming under a small hollow. Once inside she ran to her car and leapt inside.

"Okay, you win. You've gotta do your job too."

When he returned later, Watcha stayed away from him, even sleeping outside that night.

Next morning, after he filled her now indoor eating and drink-bowls, she came inside trailing the lead as though nothing had happened.

Rod finished off the last of the detail for Bill and Ben's report, phoned them to visit him, and prepared his bill.

In the mid afternoon under the warm sun, Rod placed the two now lidless storage boxes on the verandah alongside a plastic jug and two old towels for drying. He half-filled each with warm water; one had a generous amount of dog shampoo.

Speaking quietly and gently, he lowered her into the shampoo mix. She squirmed to get free and jump out. Rod kept a tight grip. She soon stopped struggling, but her body went rigid. Rod forced her hind quarters into the water and started to rub the shampoo into her hair.

Her eyes began to close for a few seconds at a time as though in a state of bliss. She did not move as he used the jug to pour more water over her shoulders and back, careful not to wet her head. The water quickly dirtied after he had rubbed the shampoo deeply into the coat. In her soaked condition she looked only half the size; vulnerable, almost frail

Picking her up, Rod transferred her into the other tub and washed out the soap. Grabbing the towels and lifting her out of the second tub he vigorously rubbed her as dry as the thick coat would allow.

Immediately he released her, she shook her whole body vigorously, trying to rid herself of the moisture still deep within her coat. Then, running down the steps, began rolling over, rubbing onto the concrete in the yard.

"Bugger you dog," yelled Rod. "I've just cleaned you."

A laugh came from outside the fence. Tim and one of his apprentices were watching.

"Are you opening a hair salon next?" asked Tim.

"Yeah," responded Rod. "And you're haircut will be next baldy."

Tim reacted by rubbing his hands through his old fashioned razor-cut style.

"The sooner we get a 'chicky babe' for you the better I'ma thinkin."

Tim and the apprentice chuckled and walked away.

Rod sat for a few minutes in frustration watching Watcha's concrete rolling reaction before he returned inside, cursing under his breath.

# \----------

Watcha stayed out all that night and had not returned by late morning when Rod walked out to purchase some stationery. As he entered the stationers, his thoughts were on the list of items he wanted to buy.

He was annoyed. He had left the list was on the table. His sub-conscious registered a dark-haired petite woman, wearing a fashionable French-style beret, examining postcards in a rack by the doorway. He courteously nodded as she looked at him and he stepped around her. It reminded him that he too should send post cards, and added those to his now mental list.

As he remembered the required items, he piled them on the counter to the bemused and pleased grin of the shop owner. With the heavy reams of A4 paper and the bulk of suspension-folders and storage boxes, he knew he should have brought his car. He would pay for the items and pick them up later.

He had the items he had come for. The woman was now examining a second rack of postcards. Rod moved to the first card-rack. From a couple of metres distance he looked more at the woman rather than the postcards. She was profile on. He was immediately struck with her beauty. Nose straight and a perfect angle, hints of high cheekbones, chin-size perfect for the face. The front of the long black hair hidden under the beret swept back to a flowing pony tail. Everything as if directly from the sculptors brain with perfection in mind.

She turned to look at him. The frontal view was just as stunning. Her deep brown eyes looked into his. No; they looked past his and into his soul. Rod suddenly felt stupidly like an inexperienced teenager. She grinned.

Rod opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He had only ever once before felt stupidly weak at the knees like this. That was when he was at High School.

His brain screamed, 'shit, shit. Think of something to say.'

Thankfully she spoke first.

"Sending to anyone special?" she asked. She spoke with a strong Irish accent. God, he loved the Irish accent coming from a woman, probably only second to a French accent also coming from a woman. No; he suddenly preferred the Irish accent.

"No," he felt him stammer out with a stupid nervousness. "No," he repeated, "just some friends I promised to write to."

"I'm sure they'll be happy to hear from you."

"I hope so."

That accent was music to his ears. He wanted to say something intelligent or profound, a fresh new line to impress her.

"Do you come here often?" 'Oh my God,' he thought, 'how moronically stupid and inane.'

She looked at him again with a grin. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

'God, she was laughing at him. Attractive women always made him feel uncomfortable.'

"I love your accent," Rod said. That felt better. It was always easier when he spoke his true feelings. He noticed her now squirm a little in self-consciousness.

"I thank you, if you mean it."

Rod was going to mention his liking to for the French accent, then thought better of it.

"Are you living here?" he asked.

"Sort of."

Rod felt his heart surge in happiness.

"Just until I have to move on," she said.

Strange answer thought Rod. Then he suddenly wondered if she was married. He glanced at her left hand to check out the ring finger. No jewelry. He felt relieved. Then he began thinking maybe she was in a relationship. 'Go for it,'

"Are you married?" he asked.

"You are straight to the point."

"Well?"

"Not any more."

"That's good."

"Why?"

"I mean, I hope I see you again."

"You probably will."

He was finding her difficult to read. Perhaps she was just playing with him. He hoped not.

"Sir, sir," the female shop attendant called to him from inside the shop. "Everything's on the register. Is that all?"

"I'm coming," he called in response.

"I'm going," said the angel with the Irish accent.

"No, no, please not yet," he said. "I don't even know your name."

"Nor I, yours."

"My name's Rod." he said.

"And mine is Claire," she replied.

"Can you wait just a few seconds? I'll pay for my stuff."

Big brown eyes smiled back at him. The mouth smiled with the eyes. He felt she had agreed to wait. He turned, walked to the counter and offered his credit card. When he heard the total he whistled out a breath between his pursed lips.

The female attendant just smiled and said, "We thank you for the business sir."

He added nothing as he keyed his PIN into the EFTPOS machine.

"Can I leave it all here for the moment? I'll need the car to take it home."

"Certainly. I'll put the smaller items into boxes."

Rod moved to return to Claire. She was no longer inside. The smell of her perfume was still in the air where she had stood. Her took a deep breath to get the full benefit, then stepped outside looking up and down the street and across the road. She was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had gone into another shop. He stood and waited for a while, then remembered the imminent arrival of Bill and Ben at his office.

Walking back to his office quickly, he glanced into each shop he passed, in hope.

Just as he arrived at his door, a large dark-green 4-wheel drive vehicle with deeply tinted windows pulled in next to his car. He could not clearly see the occupants. Brief thoughts of a Mafia hit-team knocking him off for talking to a Mafia chick named Claire, crossed his mind. No. She was Irish not Italian. A tinted window dropped down.

"We're back," called Ben from the driver's side.

"Good to see you again," responded Rod.

Pleasantries and handshakes completed, and dressed in their cleanest bush-singlets, they went up to his office, where he showed them around, unmade bed and all.

"You need a Filipina wife to tidy up for you," said Ben

"No bloody way," replied Rod.

All three of them laughed.

He left them browsing over his drafted plans and the report while he percolated some coffee, set up sugar, milk, and cups on the table, and emptied a packet of mixed biscuits onto a plate. They were reading the information in the report as he looked out of the back window and thought about Claire. His eyes swept the backyard. There was no sign of Watcha either.

"Bloody magnificent," the voices from behind him almost came in unison.

"I'm pleased you're pleased."

"All this extra stuff at the back about sizes and measurements is great. We can pre-cut everything before it's shipped and put it together like a kit-set," said Bill.

The discussions over the plans continued over the coffee and biscuits for another hour. Rod's mind kept drifting to Claire.

His mind rapidly came back to his immediate surrounding when Ben pulled a huge number of banknotes from his pocket, started counting out $50 dollar notes, and pushed them across the table in his direction for payment of his account.

"Thanks fellas, I wasn't expecting payment this quick," he responded.

"There's an extra couple of hundred in there for a job well done," said Bill.

"Most unexpected and most appreciated," said Rod.

Small talk followed for a while. Rod mentioned his meeting Claire in the hope they knew something. They did not.

They departed with the plans, asking him to join them later at the hotel. With a 'maybe' as his response he followed them downstairs to drive his car to the stationers. As he was waving them goodbye, Tim stuck his head out of the garage.

"Good guys them," he said

"Very generous too," replied Rod.

Rod related his meeting of Claire to Tim. Tim could not recall anyone local meeting that description. Disappointed, Rod returned to his office, forgetting his intention of driving to the stationer. Watcha was lying in the basket under the kitchen table. As he approached, she ambled over to him, head down in submissive posture, tail wagging. Rod patted her head, poured her some milk and made himself another coffee before sitting on the lounge. When Watcha had finished the milk she joined him on the lounge. Rod told Watcha every detail of his meeting.

The downstairs buzzer unexpectedly rang. Rod pressed the intercom button. The stationer had got a friend to drop off his order. He had forgotten about it after his talk with Tim.

Daily, around the same time of day, for the next week, he went back to the stationer hoping to see Claire. Then he walked around the shops near the stationers. He questioned the shopkeepers he knew. Nobody recalled knowing who she was. Some vaguely recollected possibly seeing her before, but that may have been just friendly encouragement.

In the meantime, Bill and Ben had been praising his abilities to everyone they spoke with. Rod had received phone calls, followed by visits from two people wanting extensions drawn up for their homes. Rod willingly accepted these commissions. While engrossed in the work it kept his mind off Claire.

He was getting quite angry with himself for this stupid infatuation. They had conversed only briefly for a few minutes, yet his thoughts were dominated by his vision of her. He was angry too because he had not ascertained her family name. If he had he could have searched electoral roles, telephone books; anything instead of just waiting and hoping for another chance meeting.

Watcha kept him company most times, day and night, listening without comment to his rantings, making only an occasional whoof or whine to his words. Watcha had taken to sleeping at the base of his bed, not on it.

When clients appeared for meetings, Watcha ran off. Rod presumed she went to her own car among the growing number of wrecks. She would not return for hours after the guests had left.

After one female client visited to discuss a new home for her and her husband, Watcha sniffed around the chair the client had sat on, then stayed out all night and most of the next day.

"Dog's bloody jealous," said Tim when he was told about the behaviour. The other patrons at the drinking school agreed when he saw them at his now regular Thursday night drinks. Thursday was also when Bill and Ben did their once a week town visit. He discovered if he stayed late and came home a little bit tipsy, Watcha frequently stayed out all night.

The memory of Claire had begun to fade when he walked to the stationers three weeks later.

"Forgotten me already eh?" the feminine Irish voice came from behind him.

Rod whirled in soaring hope. Yes it was.

"Where the hell have you been?" Rod immediately regretted saying it.

"Ooh" she said. "I didn't take you for a hot tempered young man."

"I'm sorry," said Rod lowering his head in shame at his outburst. "I didn't mean it to sound like that. It's just that I've been looking for you everywhere."

"Now why would that be?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "It's just that, well, like, I really wanted to see you again. I didn't know where to look, anything."

"I knew nothing about you either, 'cause you said nothing to me that day."

"I never even got your family name."

"Nor you to me."

Rod felt frustrated. Was she toying with him again?

"Mackie," he said. "Rod Sean Mackie's my name." I'm pleased to meet you. He held out his hand.

"Shannon, Claire Mary Shannon," she replied mimicking him. And seemingly putting out her hand to shake his, at the last second she slapped his offered hand.

"Now then, why didn't you do it properly the first time we met."

"Would it have made a difference?"

"I don't know."

She lowered her head. "Maybe I wasted too much time. You see I've watched you before when you've been walking around, but you missed seeing me. I didn't want to be forward."

"You're here now, that's all that's important isn't it?"

"Maybe," she responded.

"I'd really love to ask you to dinner."

"What's to stop you asking?"

"My nerves, and fear of rejection."

"Rejection? Who in their right mind could reject you?"

"Well, would you like to come to dinner with me?" Rod asked sheepishly.

"That's not really the question you mean to ask, is it?"

"I thought it was. What was wrong with it?"

"You wanted me to express my desires of going to dinner with you without revealing your desire to take me to dinner."

"Please stop playing with me. What should I have said?"

"As it is you who wants to take me to dinner you should have said so."

"OK. I would like to take you to dinner. Will you come?"

"No. But then I'm not in my right mind am I?"

Rod dropped his head in disappointment.

"Oh for Mother Mary's sake," she went on. "Why in the name of the Holy Father didn't you ask the question properly the first time?"

She looked at his confused expression, reached out with her hand and touched his cheek.

Rod felt his body shoot with pleasure.

"So. I am now in my right mind and I would like to accompany you."

Rod felt his face quickly transition to a broad smile.

"I did not mean to hurt you," she went on. "Maybe I want to protect us both."

"Let's see what happens and let what will be, be."

"Agreed," she replied.

"Tonight?"

"Agreed."

"Where can I pick you up?"

"Oh no," she said. "You could be one of those horrible stalkers. I have my own means of transport. I'll meet you there."

"Not much choice of eating places around here though."

"It's the company that's important isn't it?"

"True. Indian okay for you?"

"Fine. I don't have to pick the spicy dishes," she said.

"The Indian restaurant, I can't remember its name, is in the township on the left side of the road heading toward the beach. Just past the library and before the Post Office."

"I'll find it."

"I hope so. Eight o'clock?"

"Eight o'clock. I'll meet you inside."

Rod watched her turn and go. Maybe 5 feet two inches, and in his mind all beautiful.

Just before she turned the corner she stopped, turned around, and looked back at him. He felt guilty that he had been watching her. She gave a little wave and then disappeared around the corner. He entered the stationers and realized he had forgotten what he had come for. He bought the daily newspaper, and left.

The smell of her perfume once again hung in the air, lingering in his nose. As soon as he got back to the garage he happily told Tim about his date.

"Hey, Shirl and I eat there lots of times when we have a baby-sitter. Good food."

"I hope so."

"While you were out much earlier today, they dropped off three more wrecks," Tim went on. "Piled them on the top and one fell over. Watcha took off under the fence. Must've frightened hell out of the poor dog."

"She'll be back." Rod looked at his watch. "2:30 pm already Tim, I better start getting organized for tonight."

"You must be real ugly if it's gonna take you five hours to get dressed."

They both laughed. Rod turned and left.

# \----------

Rod rushed around inside, tidying up, changing the sheets on his bed just in case he got lucky. He sprayed the rooms with lavender air conditioner to cover any obnoxious smells which he might have grown accustomed to. He gave his black shoes the first polish they had received since his arrival, but he had not worn them much. He prepared Watcha's evening snack and filled her water bowl, but she was still gone after the falling car scare.

His mind had been racing through the hundreds of possible different scenarios for the evening. The unpleasant ones he generally successfully cast from his mind as quickly as they entered. He tried to calm himself and not behave like an adolescent, but he had not felt this alive since he was a teenager.

By 6:30 pm he was satisfied with the presentation and tidiness of the house. He took a long shower and dried off thoroughly; he did not want any sweatiness as a residue. Deodorant was applied, followed by a good musk talcum powder to his other parts. He hoped his cologne application was subtle. He did want his cologne to suppress that perfume of hers.

At 7:20 pm he was ready. He wanted a quick shot of whisky to calm his nerves, then, thought better of it. He did not want his breath to smell of alcohol when they first met. He realized he had not cleaned his teeth and rushed to the bathroom. No time left now to sit on the lounge and think. He readjusted the lounge cushions again, and started downstairs to the car.

The security lights startled him as he exited. He glanced quickly through the fence but Watcha was still missing. Brief panic set in when he could not fit the key into the car lock before he realised he was using the wrong key. Then the car alarm went off as he opened the door. 'Settle down', he thought as he pressed the remote car alarm button.

"Please let that be the last cock-up for the night," he said aloud before he realized he had vocalized his thoughts.

By 7:45 pm he was seated at the small bar-waiting area inside the restaurant. He sat restlessly twirling the ice cubes in his glass of lemonade, breath still alcohol free. The next 15 minutes seemingly took an hour to pass as his wristwatch and the clock on the wall seemed to go in reverse or take 180 seconds to a minute.

Eventually 8:00 pm arrived, and he stood from his bar stool to watch the door.

'Hell, it's now 8:01 and she's still not here,' he thought.

8:02, I wonder if she changed her mind.'

8:03 and the door opened. His nerves jumped. A couple in their 60's entered, and were quickly met by the host and ushered to their table.

8:06, the door opened again. It was her. He was frozen to the spot. Her long black hair was out of the pony tail and flowing freely to her shoulders. The host had rushed to the door before he could move. Courteously assisting her remove her three-quarter length coat it revealed the perfect fitting black knee length dress, unexaggerated V-neck front and delicate straps over toned shoulders.

Necessity unfroze his legs and he moved toward her. Immediately he moved, she saw him and walked toward him beaming a smile. When they met midway he put an arm on each side of her shoulder. It seemed so natural for her to lean forward and he kissed her on the forehead, the smell of her perfume already dizzying him.

"Drinks first or immediate table for two, sir?" said the host.

Rod looked at Claire. She simply raised her eyebrows. "Yes please," he replied, "to a table if you have one with a bit of privacy. We've got a lot of catching up to do."

The host looked around. "If you can wait about 15 to 20 minutes, the perfect table for you will be available."

"Thanks, we'll wait at the bar."

Rod made sure Claire was comfortable on the bar-stool.

"I had to be fashionably late," she said; her Irish accent playing with his ears.

"You look gorgeous," he said.

"Thank you. Flattery will get you everywhere, but just maybe not on the first night," she smiled.

"I was dreading that you might not turn up."

"What? And miss my first decent meal since the Irish potato famine?"

"Drink?"

"What are you having?"

"Lemonade so far. I didn't want to be half drunk when you arrived.

"A good Irish whisky and water, if they have that in an Indian restaurant."

Turning to the waiting barman Rod ordered two Irish whiskies and water.

The next 15 to 20 minutes flew by for him as the conversation mixed between light hearted verbal jousting and serious talk about families and travel. His eyes had occasionally drifted to her finely shaped slightly suntanned shoulders. Her skin was of the beautiful Spanish, Irish mix after Sir Francis Drake and bad weather forced the Spanish galleons onto the rocks of Ireland. It seemed an intrusion when their table was pronounced ready. Rod feared the spell over them at the bar might be broken.

He followed her to the table. Nice waist, properly proportioned backside for her small size, shapeliness to the legs, a combination that only fashion models have.

Menus presented were carefully studied. The waiter stopped by the table just as they finalized selection.

Thankfully, allaying Rod's fears, the conversation picked up as though there had been no interruption. Entrees and main course were shared and eaten. Rod was pleased that Claire openly showed a hearty appetite, not pretending at fastidiously picking at the food.

"Ahem," Rod heard the sound next to the table and looked up. Tim's grinning face was beaming down at him.

"Gotcha," he said. "I told Shirley we had to go out for dinner tonight."

"You scrub up well out of your overalls," said Rod. "This is my date Claire."

"Pleased to meet you, Claire. This guy's been moping around like a kid looking for a lost teddy bear since he met you and couldn't find you again." Tim turned and pulled a slightly dumpy fair-haired woman with a youthful round face to his side. "This is my better half," he said.

"You know he believes it too," she smiled and shook hands with Rod and Claire.

Claire immediately began chatting with Shirley and within seconds they were off in their own world of girl-speak.

Tim feigned a wide-eyed surprised look, shrugged his shoulders, pushed Rod further along the bench seat and sat down. Claire made way for Shirley on her side.

"Don't worry," said Tim, "we're not gonna crash your party. I must confess I was nosey though, you know, like we country folk are. So we'll go in a couple of minutes."

"That's all right, you're welcome," said Rod.

"Bloody liar," grinned Tim.

The men chatted briefly until surprisingly Tim interrupted the girls talking and said, "C'mon Shirl, our main course is probably ready. No sense in lettin' it get cold."

With 'see you soons', and other farewells they left for their own table.

Rod was thankful for Tim's thoughtfulness. He greedily wanted every second of Claire's time for himself.

They had soon finished a mouth cooling dessert, and coffees were taken and drunk. Rod did not want an end to the evening but wondered how he could approach his next thoughts.

Claire pre-empted his concerns.

"Would you take me to the beach?" she asked.

"Your wish is my command m'lady."

"Don't make promises I might ask you to keep."

Rod smiled at the possibilities, signalled the waiter for the bill, paid, then waved to Tim and Shirley as they left.

They sat in silence on the short drive to the beach. Claire had placed her hand on his shoulder as he drove; a seemingly natural act. There were few cars parked looking at the three-quarter moonlit ocean. Rod parked furthest from any others. The silence continued for a few more minutes, yet it was not an uncomfortable silence. More an inner reflection of the night already passed.

Rod inwardly cursed the bucket seats of the modern cars and the high sitting hand brake and gearbox cover that separated them. The hand holding that started immediately they stopped seemed as natural as breathing. Her small hands were smooth, soft and warm. Occasionally she would dig a fingernail into to him and grin at his reaction.

It was a bit cool to go for a stroll, but to his surprise after about five minutes of sea-watching she said, "Come on, let's get some sand between our toes."

Rod removed his shoes and sox while she slipped off her high heels and put on her coat.

The large pebbles of the parking area forced them to walk gingerly until they got to the sand high up on the beach. Claire looked around and finding a large dry sand area next to a thick log, sat down, her back against the log. Rod joined her.

Claire pointed at the bright star in the north-east. "Venus," she said. "It's not just a star for love and lovers you know. It's a star for sexual desires and lust."

The thought of making love with Claire, the whiskies, the cooler night air, or a combination of them all sent wanton excited shudders down his spine.

"Oh you're cold," she said in reaction to his inhale of breath between closed teeth.

Rod was feeling the chill a little, but did not correct her.

Claire pulled her skirt high up her thighs and sat knees astride him, arms under his, and around his back.

"I'll try and keep you warm," she said.

Rod felt his desire start immediately, and put his arms around Claire.

A couple of minutes passed in this intimate time.

She stretched up and whispered in his ear, "Your heartbeat and heavy breathing tells me you want me."

"Oh God yes," responded Rod.

"And I you," she replied.

"Your wish?" he stammered.

"Oh yes, but no Rod, not yet. I've never done that on a first date. Then again I've never wanted to as much on a first date." She leaned back and looked at him from sad brown eyes.

"Oh Rod, dammit. I didn't want or expect this to happen now. It can't happen now you see." She stood up. "Damn you," she said. "Take me home."

Rod stood slowly, his hand adjusting the uncomfortable fold in his trousers. "You mean your home or your car?"

"No!" she snapped. "Your home and your bed. And you make love to me and you cuddle me all night."

Rod hurried her back to his car hoping she would not change her mind on the return journey. They swept through the township and past the restaurant over the speed limit and a minute later they were outside the garage.

Within two minutes they were naked under the clean sheets. Her skin was the smoothest thing he had ever touched. Wherever her hands touched him it seemed to find new nerve-endings that had never surfaced before. Her soft lips teased his neck, shoulders and chest. His mind became lost in the ecstasy that followed. When he exploded he felt his whole body seemed to eject.

"That was for you," she whispered in his ear. "The next is for me."

She lay on his shoulder and chest, her hand on his stomach. Measuring the right time to perfection she started again, this time making him love her as if there was no tomorrow, teasing and taunting him when he got close to orgasm, but reaching her own several times with deep moans. Finally she let him release and he realized he was calling out her name loudly.

He relaxed back onto the pillow and she resumed her head on chest position. A few minutes of silence followed.

"Mother of Mary you make a heck of a noise," she said, and then giggled.

"Your fault," he replied. "My God I needed that."

"Me too."

The silence continued and the warmth flowed between their bodies. Rod didn't care that his arm had gone numb. He could hear her deep even breathing. She had fallen asleep. Rod felt utter happiness and contentment for the first time in years.

Within seconds he too was asleep.

# \----------

When he woke next morning he kept his eyes closed. Her head was gone from his chest. Was it just a dream? He gently stretched his arm out feeling for her in his bed. Not there. He sat up quickly, listening in case she was in the shower or the toilet. Looking around the floor he saw all his clothes where they had been discarded. All of Claire's were gone.

Maybe it was just a dream; he always just threw his clothes on the floor. He picked up the pillow from her side of the bed and sniffed it. It was no dream; her scent was strong on the pillow.

Wrapping a Balinese sarong around his waist, and putting on an old T-shirt and slippers, he double checked all the rooms. Then he saw a note under a clip on his drafting board. As he read it he smiled and felt his heart tighten.

"Thank you for a night I have always dreamed for. Your genuine affection is shown from your eyes to your toes. Pity about the brain damage though, only joking. I hope you will let me see you in a few days. Love. Claire Mary Shannon."

He gently removed the note from under the clip and sniffed it. Her perfume was there too.

He put it on the table and made himself coffee. Then picking up the note; sat on the lounge and read it again.

His mind raced all over the place. Where has she gone? Why the mystery? No contact phone number. He ran his mind back over all the dozens of things they had talked about. No real clues there, except she had not referred to any events in the last two or three years. Then again, that did not mean much. Maybe little had happened that was worth mentioning. There were many long periods in his life when he had just felt he was only occupying space on an otherwise busy planet.

Last night's events meant that the next few days waiting for her return, to not hear the sound of her accent and, without the touch of her body, was going to be absolute torment. He did not want to shower; he could still smell her on him.

# \----------

Needs dictates wants, so he showered and dressed, then walked to the Post Office to buy stamps. When he returned Tim was outside the garage wiping his hands on a grease-soiled rag.

"She's some gorgeous chickie babe man," said Tim.

"Nah. I get em looking like that every day of the week," replied Rod.

"You wish."

"I wish is right. She sure has something special."

"You know, Shirley reckons she's seen her somewhere."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She can't remember at the moment. Thinks she's a well known model or something. Knowing Shirley's mind it'll come to her eventually."

"Nah, she's not a model mate, she's too short. You know all them models are tall skinny racehorses, legs that go right up to you know where," Rod replied.

"S'pose you're right. I'll remind Shirl of that. Where's Claire now?"

"Don't know."

"What? God if ever there were two people who looked like they were going to do some rumpy dump, it was you two last night."

"No mate," lied Rod. "Just a goodnight kiss when I dropped her off."

"Where does she live then?"

"I don't know. I just dropped her off at her car."

"Oh well, I'd better earn some money. Hungry kids and all that. See you later."

"Ciao," replied Rod. He wished he had seen her car; he would have noted her number plate and tried to track her through that.

Topping his stairs he saw Watcha, tail wagging, waiting inside the door.

"You're back. Did those horrible nasty people scare you?"

She responded with a couple of barks.

"I'll get you some fresh food. The other's been out for a day waiting for you. Well I guess you know that, otherwise you would've eaten it."

Rod emptied Watcha's bowls, washed them, and replenished them with fresh food and water. Then after making himself another coffee, sat on the lounge. Watcha had scoffed her food quickly, taken a long drink, and joined him on the lounge.

"So, now you want to hear all about my little episode eh?"

Rod proceeded to relate everything to Watcha. Occasionally she would interrupt with a bark, a howl or a whoof.

"But I couldn't tell Tim what we did. He might think we were naughty."

"Whoof."

"So it's just you and me for a few days."

"Whoof."

Tim went to his draft board and sat on the work stool to begin work. Then, standing, he walked to the table, picked up Claire's note and replaced it under the clip where he found it, resumed his seat and started working.

Work, and a second more co-operative and effective bath for Watcha kept him busy for the next three days. She had taken up a new sleeping position. He always left his days used clothes on the floor before putting them in the laundry basket when he got up. Watcha would doze on top of them. As usual, Watcha disappeared outside at the arrival of any clients, then returning through the swinging flap, tail wagging waiting for a pat or a cuddle. On the two occasions more car bodies were delivered, Watcha had hidden in his bedroom.

Rod's mind often drifted to Claire's return. There was nothing he could do to speed it up. Work was some distraction, but only ever temporary.

Tim had made the comment, "Gee you've been really bitten by the love bug." Rod did not dispute it. He had been fascinated, seduced, enthralled, challenged and everything else in other relationships. This one he could not decipher. He had no feeling of jealousy after the possibility of her being married and with her husband, as was suggested by Bill. Ben suggested that from Tim's description she was a film star making a film in New Zealand and could only snatch a few days off now and again.

Rod knew Bill's suggestion was wrong; he would have felt something was wrong. As for Ben's thoughts, well, Ben was the more romantic of the two, pleasant thought, but improbable.

The few days had turned into a week. Melancholy had descended even into his daily contact with people. Watcha was no longer the company she had been. Her frequent absences had become annoying, as often when he had wanted to verbalise his feelings, even if only to a dog, she was not there. Drafting work too had become a bothersome chore.

Mid-morning on the ninth day after her disappearance, he opened his desk drawer for his new box of drafting pencils. Then remembering he had left them in the car he went downstairs. He leaned in to get the pencils out of the glove-box.

"Will you take me to the beach and play around a bit on the sand."

The singing Irish accent of his angel was behind him. He pulled his head out of the car to swing around, bumping his head heavily against the door frame.

"Shit," he said.

Claire's beautiful smiling face Changed to a look of feigned shock at his swearing, and looked back at him. Rod rubbed his head vigorously.

"Now there's a fine greeting for a young friend who thought you'd be pleased to see her."

"Oh God, I'm sorry." Rod threw his arms around her.  
"That's better," she said.

Rod stepped back and held her at arms length. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Oh," she said. "Still a hot tempered young man I see."

He pulled her back to him again and cuddled her tightly. "I just missed you so much." The wonderful smell of her perfume filled his nose and his heart again.

"That's really better," she said again. Then, lowering her tone, and with a warmth that made him shudder. "And I missed you too, dreadfully."

Rod looked up over Claire's shoulder and saw Tim and two of his employees grinning at him. They immediately all gave a 'thumbs up' sign, turned and walked back inside the garage.

"We're attracting an audience," said Rod.

"Can we sell seats?"

"Not for what I want to do with you."

"Steady now. I'm still a virgin, remember?"

"Just like you, so am I," he answered.

He opened the door. Again they were quickly naked under the sheets. His long days of pent up emotions and frustrations went into his furious lovemaking before he exploded. His anger and energy spent, he lay on his back. She took up the position he had missed for past nine lonely nights, and they relaxed like that for several minutes.

"Well it doesn't seem like you're half pleased to see me then," she giggled.

Rod could not help his laughter. When his laughter finished, he paused to let the silence run. He wanted to ask so many things, but which one first?

"Please," she said. "Don't ask me anything at the moment. I promise you will know everything, just not yet."

He shut up. He had been pre-empted in his thoughts again.

# \----------

Under clear blue skies they spent the early afternoon on the beach, though the sun's warmth was a little diminished by an off-shore breeze. Again the time was passed with a mixture of general chat interspersed by equally enjoyable periods of silence; their bodies touching and eyes surveying the scene.

Collective unspoken thought made them both stand at the same time. They headed back to the car. The sun had surrendered its warming battle with the cooling wind.

On the return journey, Claire placed her hand casually on the inside of his thigh nearest her. It was a natural touch, not necessarily meant to excite him, but it did.

On their return home she asked for a towel, stripped and began showering. After a few minutes, he too stripped, and joined her. Taking the soap out of her hands, he gently washed her back, front, and around her perfectly proportioned small breasts, and around all the private regions he wanted to explore later.

She reciprocated, but her sensual touch made his reactions blatantly obvious.

"We better get this seen to, hadn't we?" she said gently washing his erection.

They dried each other gently and once again fell between the sheets. This time the lovemaking was paced and even, each one exploring the other, seeking sensitive places with light fingers.

Afterwards, he dozed off in a feeling of total relaxation.

He did not know how long he dozed, but he woke suddenly. She was gone again. He ran out of the room and into the kitchen. She was there, wearing his sarong and one of his T-shirts many sizes too large. It all looked so much better on her than on him. She was surrounded by pots and bowls; stirring something in one of them.

She looked him up and down with a school-mistress type of look. "Is this the way we dress for dinner around here, is it?"

He realized he was still naked, laughed, relieved at her still being here, and returned to the bedroom.

So it went for the next three nights and days interspersed with visits to the beach, his new fishing spot where he failed to catch anything, but she hooked and landed three brown trout; window shopping in the malls of nearby townships, where she tried on various items, but refused to buy any, nor allow him to, apart from a couple of casual items and personals, because she had brought no luggage.

Watcha had not turned up in this period, which annoyed Rod considerably. He had wanted to show her to Claire. "Damn jealous dog," explained Rod, though inwardly he worried, as there had been a couple of car slips in the yard.

Tim had greeted them a few times as they came and went in the car. Rod always giving a surreptitious wink, or thumbs up, when he was sure Claire was not looking.

# \----------

Rod was feeling the happiest he had ever been. They had discussed topics which seemed to cover almost every topic available, except one, their future together. Rod knew he had to broach this subject soon.

On the fourth night, after another home-cooked dinner by Claire, they moved to the couch with their wine-glasses. Rod selected a DVD of an Eagles concert to put in the player and watch as they sat cuddled together.

Claire, track pants on, turned and sat astride him as she had on their first night on the beach. She put a palm on each of Rod's cheeks and gently kissed him on the lips. Then sitting back, palms still in place, locked her grip on his eyes.

"You know I can't stay, don't you?"

Rod felt his insides drop.

"You know too that I love you more than I've ever loved anyone or anything. I just wished I'd met you two years ago."

Rod's mind raced, but couldn't fix on anything to say.

Claire went on. "I want more than anything to be with you, and I will try everything that's possible to be with you forever."

Rod tried squeezing his eyelids tight to prevent the tears, but failed.

Claire licked the tears from his cheeks. "Salty, but a taste I will keep in my heart."

Rod finally managed to verbalize. "Why? Why now?"

"Perhaps my journey through your little town and, the wanderings through your country over the past two years were just to meet you. But I have to go. In any way that is possible I want to be back again with you."

The lovemaking from Claire that night was feverish and frantic. She clawed his back and bit him as he writhed in pain. It was not pleasant as the previous nights had been, but when he exploded inside her it was as if his soul had followed. They fell asleep clinging tightly together.

# \----------

He woke late and immediately knew Claire was missing. Gone. Despite knowing he would not find her he frantically searched through all the rooms.

When had she left?' he asked himself. Had he just missed her or had she only feigned sleep and gone much earlier.

He went back to bed. His mind tried to examine everything for a clue as to where she had gone. She had once commented about her Irish passport now being handy as a Euro passport enabling her to go anywhere she wanted in Europe. She had told him about the many castles and other ancient buildings she had visited throughout Europe. A companion, partner or husband was never mentioned. Though she did talk about her three sisters, her deceased parents and how she, as the eldest was brought up with the strictest Catholic discipline. Her younger siblings had been allowed much more latitude.

Rising for his coffee and cereals he wondered if this was what a condemned man felt like before a hanging. He craved company, yet wanted to be alone. It was Claire's company he wanted, that he knew.

After pouring his second coffee he broke a couple of biscuits in his hand and went out onto the balcony, sitting his coffee on the banister. He looked down the balcony to where he had put Watcha's bowls outside. As she had obviously sulked at the presence of Claire as Rod's preferred company, she had disappeared for four days. Rod did not want her to starve, so he moved the bowls back outside. Normally the bowls were inside to be away from possums and feral cats. The bowls were empty.

In hope, more than certainty, he started to call out Watcha's name. On the fourth call he sensed rather than saw her. Maybe it was the flash of her white blaze. She finally emerged from a narrow gap between a narrow three-high car-pile. She sat on her haunches glowering back at him.

"I'm sorry I neglected you," Rod called out.

Her response, like that of an offended child, she turned and walked away, back among the wrecks.

Rod descended the stairs and sat on the second to bottom step and began to call her name regularly, until it became a chant. After a full five minutes of calling he saw her face and eyes peering at him from under a nearby car body.

"C'mon girl. I need you."

Head down, body lowered, tail down but swinging slightly, she slowly made her way toward him. She stopped about a metre away, eyes seemingly expressing anger with him. He opened his palm showing the biscuits. Her eyes flashed between him and the biscuits. Eventually temptation won; she ran forward and gently took the biscuits from his hand.

After she had eaten those, tail now wagging furiously, she nuzzled his hand for more. He stood and started back up the steps.

"Well come on then."

She bounded up, two steps at a time and followed him inside. Rod treated her to warm milk, more biscuits, and soon after began brushing her now dusty coat with an old hairbrush, being gentle around the knots.

After the brushing she jumped onto the lounge, sniffed all over it, growling and barking intermittently, then sat as if repossessing what was hers.

Rod felt relieved. His despair lifted slightly. At least he had someone to talk to.

He showered and dressed, Watcha watching all the while, not letting him out of her sight for a moment. Rod felt guilty about having to go out for such a trivial thing as a couple of small batteries for a wall clock and leaving Watcha so soon. He knew that Tim sold them in his garage so he would only be gone briefly.

He told Tim about Claire's going. Tim expressed genuine regrets at the event. Then as he paid Tim for the batteries Tim said, "By the way, there'll be a fair bit of a din for an hour or so this arvo. Soon after noon I think. The procession of trucks and the crane will be emptying the yard again."

"I'd better lock Watcha in just in case she runs outside," replied Rod.

"She's back then?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Some sort of company for you then. I'd feel sad if she got hurt or worse."

"Me too."

Rod returned to see Watcha still sitting on her reclaimed couch. He bolted the swing door into the down position.

Soon after midday, Rod heard voices and heavy engine sounds from the yard below. A crane was being readied at the gate entrance to lift the nearest car and latest arrival into the back of the high sided truck. Watcha, front legs on the back of the couch, looked out the window and growled. Rod kneeled on the couch beside her and watched.

Six car bodies were quickly lifted into the first truck which then moved away, and another moved into its place.

Watcha was becoming more and more agitated and barking more often as the work went on and workmen and the cranes moved further into her precious yard. Rod tried to soothe her by talking quietly to her and patting her. He tried to pick her up, but she quickly squirmed free and ran toward the swing door. She hit it at speed from an angle. The non-giving door twisted her head back and her rump hit the wall as she collapsed on the floor. Her immediate yelp of pain was followed with frantic rubbing of her paws over her nose as she stayed sitting on the floor. She stood slowly and gently shook herself, then, tested the bolted down swing-door with her paw. When it did not move she pushed at it with her head.

As Rod intended, she could not get out.

Watcha ran back to the couch, looking out the window, she mixed growling with her teeth bared, and barking. Then running to the door she tested it again. Back to the couch she pushed against the glass window barking as loudly as she could.

The workmen were three-quarters of the way through their clean-out, with trucks pulling up immediately the previous laden one departed. It was a well drilled routine and explained the logic of the way they loaded the cars into the yard to begin with. First in dropped at the furthest part of the yard away from the gate entrance would be last out as the bottom of the pile.

Watcha began running from the middle of the lounge, and using the sofa as a springboard began throwing herself at the glass window. Each crash against the window would stun her briefly; she would sit for a few seconds then try again. Rod ran in to grab her during one of the brief recovery periods. She snapped at him, taking a little bit of skin from his hand. Rod checked his hand, wiped the small trickle of blood with a hankie, and ran to the bedroom to grab his dressing gown to throw over Watcha and control her.

By the time he returned from the bedroom with his dressing gown, the large glass window behind the sofa had two long cracks across the width from corner to corner and a series of smaller cracks in the middle. Rod realised if Watcha smashed her way through, the falling glass would kill her. If the glass did not kill her, her speed would take her beyond the balcony to fall the three metres or so to the ground. He had to stop her.

He stood between the window and where she stood by the furthest wall making ready for her next charge. She growled angrily at him baring her teeth wider than he had ever seen. He recognized the descendent of the wolf. He tried talking to calm her down. There were no barked responses, only teeth-bared growls. She had shown no regret after the previous bite. If she had to, she would do it again.

Rod held the dressing gown out in front of him like a bull-fighters cape. He would have to trap her underneath it, wrap her up, and somehow control her until the car-workers left. She feigned a start. Rod raised the gown higher, ready. Then she charged again. Rod dived onto her projected path, gown spread, but she adjusted her direction at the last second leaving Rod empty handed.

As she hit the window Rod heard himself scream, "No."

The glass shattered. Rod looked around to see Watcha hanging on the far side of the glass held by one leg. He rushed to the window and reached through to grab her body and lift it up to relieve the pressure on the leg. As soon as the leg was free, Watcha kicked away. With her back right leg bleeding profusely; she ran along the balcony and down the steps. Rod quickly dragged his arms back through the window as the top began to move slowly, before crashing down.

Rod breathed out heavily at their joint good luck at not getting killed by the glass, but he was worried by the amount of blood Watcha had already lost on the balcony.

The last truck was already backed well into the yard and with one car-body already loaded there was only four more to go in the short load. The crane operator was first to see Watcha charging. He called out to warn Tim and the truck driver who were standing back by the gate. They turned just in time to see Watcha make an unsuccessful run-by snap at their legs. They both jumped at the unexpected aggression.

Watcha made a couple of feeble attempts at jumping at the crane operator who was several metres above the ground and behind a closed door. Then she ran round the car-bodies and entered the bottom one which had been her first home.

The claws of the crane were already securely gripped around the top car in the pile of three. The crane operator stopped and called out to Tim. Tim told him that the dog had crawled into the bottom car and to take the car he had secured. That was soon dropped into the truck. After the operator looked at Tim, Tim waved him to clamp the second last car and continue. Soon, that too was in the back of the truck

Rod, still holding his dressing gown, had now joined Tim and the truck driver in the yard. The three of them looked at the last car, a little yellow Ford Lazer. Compared to many of the others removed, its condition did not look too bad.

"We've gotta get her out of there," said Tim. Tim jogged back to the garage and quickly returned with a couple of seat cover sheets normally used to prevent dirtying car seats while they worked on the inside of a car. The three of them were ready. Rod was hoping he would not have to drop his dressing gown onto the oily, greasy yard.

Watcha growled and showed her teeth as they approached. When they got within two metres of the car she jumped out of the window, trailing her injured leg, and ran out the open gate to the front of the truck.

"Jesus man," said the truck driver. "What's her gripe?"

"You're taking her home away," said Tim nodding in the direction of the little car. Then Tim turned to Rod. "That leg looked bad. How'd she get out?"

"Look at that," said Rod turning to point at the broken window.

The driver and Tim both said "shit" in perfect unison. Then Tim turned back and waved to the operator to continue. The crane's teeth clamped around the last body, lifted it, swung around and dropped it in the truck. The driver, dismounted crane operator, Tim and Rod small-talked for a few minutes, then shook hands. The driver climbed up and drove his truck out of the yard and out of sight. The crane operator took a few minutes longer to drive the tracked vehicle out of the yard, then carefully up the two guide-rails of the heavy-machinery hauler. After winding the guide-rails in, the operator gave Tim the thumbs up and drove the hauler away.

"Well," said Tim. "There's been a lot happened since that yard was last cleared."

"A lot," agreed Rod.

"I'll get the window guys in this afternoon to fix that one. It's all insurance stuff. No-ones gonna believe a dog did it so it musta been something flung out of the cars eh?"

"You're the boss," replied Rod. "I hope Watcha gets back here quickly. I'll get her to a vet. That leg didn't look too good."

Rod went back inside his rooms, bolted the doggy swing door in the up position for Watcha to use, and from his bedroom window watched Tim's staff hot-water blast the surface of the empty yard. It was a well rehearsed routine. They had barely finished when Rod's intercom told him the glazers had arrived for the window repair.

The activities meant he had been too pre-occupied to mope and think about Claire. He half filled Watcha's bowls, in hope, then, thought about his own stomach. Pizza. He had not had one since his return and his taste buds began salivating; their demands needing to be met. He picked up the phone and after discussions about what was on the menu and on special, he ordered the special and extras. Even though he knew full well that by the time it arrived the price would be three times greater than the special.

The next intercom buzz was the delivery of his pizza. Rod went to the bedroom to get his wallet. When he returned the deliverer was looking at his paintings. The deliverer saw Rod re-enter the room.

"You've got some real cool paintings, man. Like I really like your cool taste," said the pizza man.

"Yes, well the paintings and I have just come out of the refrigerator, that's why we're cool," Rod responded sarcastically.

"Yeah man, some real cool stuff."

The pun had obviously gone way past the pizza man's comprehension. It was obvious the pizza man wanted to talk more, but Rod did not, and so paid him a healthy tip and ushered him toward the top of the steps.

"Man, that truckie that was here earlier today should look after his dog."

"What dog?" asked Rod.

"Clever and cute little thing. Black with a bit of white here and there. Bit like a small Lassie type dog, you know?"

"What happened?"

"I was delivering a pizza down here a few hours ago. I had to stop behind the truck parked on the road. Givin' way to the oncoming traffic. Saw you guys chattin' in the yard. Then this little critter flew out from nowhere, onto the trucks bumper, somehow onto the bonnet and onto the cabin roof. Stopped there for a minute licking its back leg which seemed to have a lot of blood on the white portion. Then it leapt into the back with all the wrecks.

"Why didn't you say something to the driver?"

"Hey, a man and his dog are often closer than the wife. Not me interfering, man."

"That's the last you saw of them?"

"Nah. Caught up with them on SH 1. The dog's on the top of some little yellow car that's a few inches above the sides. After I passed them I didn't give it another thought."

The deliverer left. Rod glanced at his watch. About three, maybe four hours had passed since they started cleaning the yard. Watcha could be anywhere. Whatever had happened she had apparently made her choice.

Rod sat on the lounge and started on the pizza. He quickly started to feel depressed. It seems he had lost two things he loved inside twelve hours and there was nothing he could do about either.

His intercom buzzed again. This time it was Tim. "Hey, we're finished down here; wanna come to the pub for a couple?"

"I might have an early night," replied Rod. "But thanks." He was in no mood to be sociable.

"Gawd, sorry" said Tim. "I've got an envelope to give you from Shirley. I forgot about it 'til now."

Rod buzzed the door release and Tim clumped up the steps.

"Here ya go mate. Don't know what it is except, remember when I said Shirl thought she remembered Claire from somewhere? She finally remembered it was something in one of those girlie fashion mags. She keeps them for years she does. Said it was a photo she was remembering. I couldn't remember Claire's family name, but anyway it can't be her any way 'cause it was all before you arrived.

Rod slowly opened the envelope and unfolded a newspaper clipping with a two column photo at the bottom of the two column article. Tim was looking over his shoulder.

"My gawd, she does look like the woman in the photo," said Tim. "Same first name and all."

Rod looked at the photo and felt his heart skip a beat. They started to read the article.

"Regrettably one of Ireland's most loved TV game show and current affairs hosts became a fatal casualty on our roads. Claire Mary Shannon, nearing the end of her two year in depth filming and holiday break, was soon to depart our shores. The car which she was driving, hit a patch of oil on the road and she lost control, hitting a tree and dying instantly. Her bright yellow Ford Lazer was a frequent visitor to many charity events.

The article went on about her many achievements in TV features and the many awards and presentations she had won. When arriving in New Zealand she was asked why she had never married. She responded. "The right man hasn't come along yet, maybe he's just down the road here in New Zealand."

"This magazine expresses its condolences to Claire's family and all her fans who will miss Claire's wonderful Irish brogue."

"My God," said Tim. That was her car. The first one in the yard this year. I remember it now. There was talk then about some actress or other."

Rod had frozen to the spot. When Tim looked at Rod the tears were running down each of Rod's cheeks.

"But it wasn't her mate," said Tim. "Your Claire was here, and alive."

Rod's weakened barely audible voice said "No Tim." Rod walked slowly to the drafting board, carefully took Claire's earlier note, and showed it to Tim.

Tim read it, then again and sat on the couch in stunned silence.

"It's signed Claire Mary Shannon."

"I know," said Rod.

"But what about the dog?" asked Tim.

After a few minutes silence, Tim stood, put his hand on Rod's shoulder, turned and walked slowly down the stairs in silence and left.

Rod watched TV for a while, without really watching anything. Maybe once, just this once he would have a few good strong whiskies to help him deaden his pain. He knew it was not really the first time, but it had helped on rare occasions before. He suddenly felt sleep deprived and was sure a long sleep would solve his physical exhaustion. For now he would just sit on the couch for a while.

# \----------

"Well you see those events happened like I told you," said Tim to the two doctors standing by the couch. "Then, this is just how I found him, just sitting like this. I hadn't seen Rod for two days. With all this stuff happening over his girlfriend or whoever it was, I didn't want to interfere. But not even seeing a light in the place for two nights and his car still parked out the front, I thought I better check it out. So I let myself in with the spare key. I was worried that he might've done something silly, you know. That's how I found him like you've seen. Alive. Just blank. Nothing there doctors. Sometimes the eyes blink or the head moves slightly, but nothing registers. The windows there but the house is empty. The bodies built but the brains on walkabout. What's the matter with him?" Tim looked anxiously at the two doctors who had drawn up chairs to sit opposite Rod on the couch as they continued their examination.

"Exactly what you said," replied one. "His mind has gone to another plane. It's rare, but it does happen. He seems to be in a cataleptic trance normally brought on by an immensely traumatic event. The events you have described might have been the cause. In the animal world some creatures mate for life. If one dies the other just pines away."

"You said he never mentioned family here or overseas? If we can't trace family anywhere, he'll have to remain in an asylum. Electric shock treatment might work, but could go either way." He pointed to the damp patch under where Rod was sitting. "It also seems like nappies, a wheelchair and tube feeding until he either recovers, or something else," said the psychologist.

"But where did his mind go so suddenly like that? Asked Tim"

"Unfortunately there is nothing normal medicine can do," said the other doctor. "He will remain in this other world until something brings him back."

"Darn shame that. Seemed a nice fellow too. Prompt with the rent. Damned insurance will go up if I don't have someone living there. Now I've gotta get a new tenant."

# **********

# CLUB CHAMPIONSHIP

Terence emerged from the bedroom and entered the lounge; arched his back, pushed his elbows high, and stretched. After a loud yawn, he scratched his belly for a few seconds.

"That belly's got quite a bit bigger since your retirement, Darling," said Mary, his wife of 40 years. "You need to do some exercise. At least I get some with my lawn bowling. You really should come. They're nice people at the club."

"You're up early," he said. "Looks like you're dressed for bowls again."

"Yes. An important day today. It's the last round of the inter-club competition. If we win, we are the regional champions for the women's senior class."

"Good for you." Terence stretched and yawned again.

"Anyway, you slept in," she said. "It's nearly 9:00 am. Hurry up and get dressed, Mabel will probably arrive early to take me to bowls, she always likes to talk. You know what she's like. And, I don't want her to see you standing around in your old underpants and singlet with your dressing gown open. Why you can't wear nice pyjamas like other men, I'll never know."

"Firstly, forty years ago you never liked me wearing anything in bed. Secondly, how do you know what other men wear in bed?"

"In reply to your questions, firstly, you had more hair on your head then, not growing out your ears and nose. Secondly, none of your business. But please hurry up and dress. She's not due for half-an-hour, but you never know."

"Go on. Let me have some fun. Just a quick flash for old Mabel, it might make her day. The poor thing's put two husbands in their graves. She'll never get a third."

"One look at you and she'll never want one. Get moving. At worst you'll give her a heart attack; at best you'll put her off her bowls."

"Yes, yes, Darling."

"While you get dressed, I'll pick a few lemons and other fruit off the trees for her. She loves cooking and making things, and appreciates fresh fruit. Keep an ear on the door."

"What happens if she comes while I'm in the shower?"

"Ask her in to scrub your back. Don't worry; she'll know to come around the back if there's no reply. She knows I'm often in the garden."

"Yeah, yeah. If I'm not dressed and she catches me in my dressing gown, the gossiping old bag will tell everyone I indecently exposed myself."

"You haven't got anything decent to expose."

Mary exited the back door, closing it behind her. Terence eyed the jug thinking about a cup of tea before showering, then thought it would be better not to as Mabel's famous ability at gossiping would creat something nasty.

Terence had barely made two steps toward the bathroom when he heard a knock on the door.

"Damn," he mumbled under his breath.

As he walked toward the front door, he closed and tied up his dressing gown, checked he had his slippers on the proper feet, and ran his fingers through his considerably thinner locks of hair.

Expecting to see Mabel, he called out "Hello, you're looking gorgeous today," and swung the door back quickly. Instead, it was two people, semi-formally, but soberly dressed, standing on the other side of the fly-screen/security door. Immediately realizing his mistake he stumbled out, "Hello, yes it looks gorgeous today isn't it?"

The woman was the closer of the two.

"Yes," she responded, "especially with all the troubles we are having in the world today, the earthquakes, wars, tsunamis and millions dying of hunger."

The speaker, with jet-black hair, was an attractive woman, maybe in her early thirties. Terence's eyes quickly scanned her partner standing a metre or so behind her. His gaunt pale face with thick glasses sitting on a very long thin nose, slim body, and slightly hunched back, immediately made Terence think of a vulture sitting around waiting for the last gasps of life from a dying animal.

"What can I do for you?" asked Terence politely, still wondering if he had cleverly covered up his previous faux-pas.

"We, through our book, and the guidance of our Lord, are trying to show people the right path before the end of the world, and save as many souls as we can. We are trying to right the wrongs and put things back in balance before Judgement Day arrives. But is seems we are already too late. Have you seen our book?" She held up a book. Terence, without his glasses, could not even make out the bold print on the front cover.

"I've seen it before, and read it several times," he lied.

"That's good then, you might already be one of us that might be saved. We are willing to leave the newest edition for you to read, and only ask for a small donation to defray the expenses."

"But I already know the book."

"Do you really? I don't think any of us do. This book will answer many of the questions you might have."

"I mean, I know the ending in the book. The end of the world. Famine, floods, wars, disease, blocked toilets, cold showers, no T.V., no sports' channel We know it's just a question of when, isn't it?"

"It could be anytime soon."

"We've got our emergency kit ready, torches, water, whisky, gin for the wife, toilet paper, canned food, jelly beans, and all that stuff."

"There will be no protection or escape for non-believers. What about your soul and the exercising of your brain to encompass a wider plain of knowledge?"

"Gee that reminds me, I'd better pack a pen and a book of crosswords. Maybe even a thesaurus."

"It could happen today you know."

"Oh Hell, I hope not. Mary would be so upset. You see it's her bowls club championship today, and she'd really be miffed if she missed that. And what should I tell her friend Mabel? I suppose if it happens in the next few minutes after she arrives, we'd have to take Mabel with us wouldn't we? I'll need to get extra supplies for Mabel. Heaven forbid. What do I do about the sleeping arrangements with Mabel. And, I haven't even had my shower yet."

"What about the book?"

"Obviously I won't have time to read it with the world ending so soon. So please excuse me, I've got to warn my wife, she's going to be so upset. It will really ruin her day. Then I must have a shower. Then phone the children. Maybe I should phone them before I shower. It might give them more time to prepare. They've all got small children too. I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to my grandchildren."

"But, sir."

"Please excuse me, I have to go and get ready for the holocaust; there's just no time to waste." Terence closed the door.

He began walking to the shower as his wife came through the back door.

"I heard you talking to someone. Was that Mabel? And you, still in your night stuff."

"No, not Mabel."

"Who was it?"

"Just some very nice people looking for the right directions, and trying to help me find myself. They thought the bowls might have to be cancelled though."

Mary screwed up her nose, gave an expression of curiosity as she looked at him, but said nothing.

"No time to waste and Mabel's not here yet, so you'll have to scrub my back if you want to be saved. Then, make a potta tea please. Quick, the world might end today. Shower, here I come," said Terence.

He turned and marched into the bathroom singing, "Glory, glory, Alleluia."

"I've gotta get you to a doctor for a mental check."

# **********

# A SUNDAY MARKET SELLER

Sunday Morning Rural Markets

The buntings and flags barely moved; the temperature was perfect, and most people appeared to be relaxed and comfortable wearing short-sleeve shirts.

As a smallish country market on a main road, nearly a hundred muti-coloured tents, awnings, and umbrellas would soon be spread around the small park running adjacent to the State Highway. A few stalls would be as simple as an open car-boot stacked high with goods seeking to find a buyer. For passing motorists, it was impossible not to notice the activity. Locals had been running stalls every second Sunday for years.

Home-made jams and scones, clay pottery, toys, pot plants and bundles of flowers, musty smelling aged second hand books, vegetables and fruits, well used CD's, DVD's, video and audio tapes, even old 78's, 45's and LP records. Add to that, so many nicks as well as knacks it was a hoarders paradise.

For those who had skipped breakfast, a tent covered barbeque supplied steaming hot barbequed sausages with copious onions and a selection of sauces to satisfy the grumbling stomachs, many of the sausages consumed by the early arriving stall-holders.

Most vendors were regulars, occupying the same spots for many years. A half-dozen or so casuals; and a few once only sellers, made up the Sunday morning market community. Buyers were not just locals, but others who travelled dozens of miles. Passing through highway traffic provided a huge source of seekers of a freakish bargain. . Many early visitors stopped off on their way to an early visit at the beach before the sun hit its peak early-afternoon muggy heat.

Today though was a little different. The same dozen stall-holders, the usual early arrivals, were busily erecting their stalls between chatting among established friends. They watched as an aged Holden station wagon, with deeply tinted windows, slowly made its way to the highway curb; then with motor roaring and the scratching sound of low bodywork, it leapt the curb, and charged into an empty space between partly erected stalls.

Amazed nearby vendors rushed to protect their merchandise, until the driver managed to get the car under control, and stop just as the front bumper touched the wooden fence separating the markets from the rail line. A few rushed to the driver's door to check on the well-being of the driver. They quickly stood back as the car door opened.

A heavy wooden walking cane seemed to be thrashing wildly in the air before it settled on the ground outside the car door. Slowly, a totally grey head of hair emerged, and, after a few back and forth movements, the whole body appeared shakily on two legs, steadying against the door, eyes scanning the on-lookers.

"Vot? You don't fink I can drive? I haf been driving longer than any of you haf been alive. I can drive anythink. Tanks, trucks, you just name it, I haf done them all."

The spectators looked amazed and amused at the tiny old lady with the strong East-European accent. She straightened the beer-bottle thick glasses back to the proper position on her nose. They too were tinted. Some pondered how she could possibly see through the tinting of both glasses and car windows.

The market manager had rushed to check there was no damage.

"I'm the manager here, Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right. Can't you see? I suppose you are da one I haf to pay for to sell my precious things? Tak? I mean Ya"

"Yes, but of course. But I'll have to allocate you a site."

"I'll take dis vun, where I am."

"Well, that's been allocated to someone else."

"So? You vant me to drive my car somewhere else in this market?"

Several stall-holders in unison interrupted," No, no you're fine. She'll be all right," as they looked appealingly at the manager. She quickly guessed at the reason for their concern.

"Yes. That'll be fine. Just set yourself up here. The fee is $15 for the site."

The sighs of relief were audible, and the spectators made their way back to their own sites. The manager was somewhat amazed at the large wad of $5 notes the old lady extracted from her small suitcase-sized handbag.

Other market-sellers were rapidly filling the empty spaces and setting up. Old friends were chatting, many about the near-miss Holden, or about other 'newbies' who had also set up. But most simply watched the slim-framed, frail-looking old lady shuffling back and forth as she methodically set up her four over-size tables under an awning tied through the car back door struts. Poles tied to the front legs of the tables provided anchor points for the front of the awning. There was general amazement that so much stuff could have come out of the car. Everyone had long finished setting–up before the old lady finally sat on the tail-board of the station-wagon and poured herself a drink from a large pink thermos, her thick-stocking covered legs barely touching the ground. Her check-patterned, woolen, three-quarter length dress probably too warm for the time of year.

A few early customers had begun picking over the early bargains for the day, even knowing many prices would drop dramatically by days end. Several un-patronised vendors had wandered to the old lady's stall to inspect her wares. Atop one of the poles, holding up the awnings front, was a national flag drooping loosely, none of them recognized the red flag with the squiggly white border, sporting a crowned eagle with spread wings in the centre. At the same time as they inspected the tables, they were trying to guess at the old ladies age, certainly more than 80, maybe 90. But how could she manage to still get a driver's licence at that age?

One table was covered in war medals, made of some unidentifiable metal and complete with ribbons and a small card explaining the record of the purpose of the award. They were all clearly noted "Replica Polish War Medals" and priced from $20 - $25, or two for $35. Three small wooden cases, with a glass front held down by little hooks, were beneath a sign reading "Authentic Polish War Medals". Their prices were $500 - $750. Another table contained a selection of bags of "home made Polish sweets" at $5 a bag, and "home made Polish cookies" at $6 a pack. The other two tables contained a mix of aged books, audio tapes, and home-knitted apparel.

As each of the other vendors approached, the old lady rummaged into another bag by her side, extracted a hand wrapped sweet, and gave it to the curious examiner. Alternatively, she would gift a whole crunchy Polish cookie.

"Ello. I'm Dora. Try this and you vill be butten for life."

The vendors replied with self-introductions, many trying the sweets immediately before returning to their own stalls.

When parents with accompanying children passed, Dora employed the same tactic, handing the child a sweet. Within minutes, strong-willed children had tugged their parents back to Dora's stall, demanding Mum or Dad buy a bag or two. Dora would shuffle to the front of the tables and give the children a little hug. Most parents obliged with a purchase, especially after trying a free sample themselves. Dora would then thank the purchaser for supporting an old lady, and give many of the adults a hug as well. It seemed nobody could resist the old lady. After each transaction, she would slowly shuffle back to her tail-board seat. Stall-holders too, quickly returned, hoping to buy some sweets or cookies before the supply ran out; but Dora seemed to replace the purchased bags and packets with a seemingly endless supply from within the station-wagon.

The morning soon passed and the afternoon began. Dora's site seemed to be the most visited. Her seemingly endless supply of sweets and cookies was beginning to show that there was a finite supply, with gaps appearing on the table. Even many of the replica medals, and other nick-knacks were selling. The authentic medals had been examined in their cases many times, but none had sold. Yet her supply of cuddles to young and old alike still seemed endless.

Other stall-holders, when in-between their own customers, drifted over to chat with the new darling of the market. To anyone prepared to listen, and even those who did not want to, she chatted away about being the only member of her large Polish family to survive, firstly the German occupation of Poland in World War 2, then the Russian invasion, when the then few survivors in her family were shipped away to concentration camps behind the Iron Curtain. By then she had been a young teenager and she freely spoke of how difficult it was to survive.

Somehow, the affects of all those tragedies seemed to reflect in her eyes as the stories of hardship came out.

By early afternoon the effects of the heat, or perhaps the recalled memories of those terrible days, seemed to make her small body shrink. Her shoulders had dropped and her back was now bent.

Two "hoodies", from out of town, began to inspect the items on her tables. They laughed at each other as they held the replica medals to their chest and called out "Seig Heil" to each other. Dora had shuffled around to the front of her tables.

"Don't you boys know that vearing those hoods, specially in dis hot days, fries your brain cells. Dey die much quicklier and make you a dumb ass," said Dora.

"S'pose your some sort of quack eh?" asked one.

"Nie, just a old lady vorried about some of today's kids."

"Let's have a look at the real ones," said the taller of the two, and snatched two boxes off the table giving his friend one.

"Shit, you don't really expect me to believe they're worth that much?"

"Dey are really are vorth much more to a proper collector. Irreplaceable."

"My arse," said the taller youth, while behind Dora's back the shorter had quickly substituted a palmed replica in the place of the authentic medal. He quickly repeated the action after picking up the third box.

"So," said the shorter youth, attracting Dora's attention. "Do you give a discount if we take all three?"

"Vell," replied Dora, as she turned to face the shorter youth, it vould depend on how much you ver offerink. You see, my Daddy and my uncle von them in the virst vorld vor."

The taller youth had now swapped his palmed replica with the one enclosed in the authentic box, and replaced the box on the table.

"You see, my Dad's a real big collector of official medals and stuff. If we could get these three for a thousand dollars, he'd be chuffed."

"Oh, vould he really?" replied Dora. Oh my God, it vould really help me out if I could sell them all, just too many bills to pay at the moment. A thousand dollars is vunderfull, even though they're vorth lotsa more."

Dora threw her skinny arms around each, saying, "dank you, dank you."

The youths grinned and winked at each other over Dora's head.

"Yeah, but first I've gotta check with Dad that he definitely wants them. I'll phone him and slip to the bank machine to draw the cash. Give us three quarters of an hour and we'll be back to get them."

"Dziekuje, dank you, dank you," repeated Dora, and she gave each of the youths another cuddle.

The two "hoodies" walked toward the road, crossed it quickly, and entered the parking area of the supermarket clearly marked "for supermarket customers only." They were quickly lost to sight as they had probably exited by car via the alternate exit.

Dora returned to her tail-gate seat, opening her suit-case handbag.

"Manage a good sale did you?" asked the stall-holder opposite her site.

Vell, I think I'll make a good gain out of it anyvay."

"Hell. Good luck. I wouldn't trust those creeps. They've been wandering around here today for an hour. I've seen them around before, though they're not locals. They're always trying to rip off one stall-holder or another. Anyway, you should take it easy. That sun is getting a bit hot."

"Tak, yah. I suppose I should. I'm feelink quite tired."

"Those guys won't be back I'm sure. They're just young thieves and con-men. We'll help you pack up and clear a space for you to get out and head home if you want, where-ever that is."

A man in his mid-sixties stepped in front of the helpful stall-holder.

"Mum. You've had us all worried as Hell."

Dora looked at the new arrival with a hint of scorn. "Dis is my interfering son. Alvays bossing me about. Just like those concentration camp guards. Saying I can't do dis, and I can't do dat. My God boy, I survived. It vould've killed you."

"Yes Mum, I know, we're all too soft nowadays. But I'm closing you down and driving your car home. Mary dropped me off."

"Oh vey. That interfering daughter-in-law. Vatever did you see in her I'll never know. She vas not good enough for my son."

The new arrival turned to the helpful stall-holder. "I'm sorry to interrupt and all that, but Mum's 92 and not meant to be out here, let alone be driving. She hasn't had a licence for years."

"Yes, I've just been saying to Dora that it's been a long day for her; but she's been very successful," said the stall-holder.

A couple of other vendors arrived.

"Is everything all right here Dora?" asked one.

"No. Dis stupid son of mine vants to keep me a prisoner in the village with all the senile old cripples."

"Oh, you're Dora's son."

The first vendor nodded.

"Well, your Mum's been like a breath of fresh air in the markets today," said the second new arrival. "And what a cook. Kept everyone happy with her lollies and cookies. Some great stories too."

The son was nodding his head in disbelief. "You didn't did you Mum?"

"Vy not. I can still cook vith the best of them. Anyway how did you know vat I was doink?"

"Your neighbour at the village said you had been cooking all week, and saw you packing your grandson's car yesterday. She was worried when you left early this morning, so she phoned us, and we've been hunting all the markets since."

"Der interfering old bitch. I'll fix her cookies."

"And, when your grandson finds out you've been driving his precious jalopy, boy, is he gonna be miffed. He only leaves it at your place because you've got an empty garage. He doesn't expect you to drive it."

The three by-standers were all grinning at the family squabble.

"Get into the car now Mum, your day here is ended. I'm packing it all away."

Dora began shuffling toward the driver's door.

"Oh no you don't Mum. The passengers side for you. Just in case you try to run me over. I'll take the keys please."

"Keys, smeys. Who needs keys. Your son never left any keys, so I had to hot-wire it, you dumb schmuck."

The watching trio burst out laughing, and no doubt thought maybe she had driven tanks as she claimed.

As Dora shuffled toward the passenger door, she was protesting loudly in a language none other than the son understood.

"Stop swearing Mum. I'll wash your mouth out with soap when we get home."

While one stall-holder helped stack the much smaller load into the car, the other two cleared a path to enable the station- wagon to reverse safely out of the grassed area, back onto the road.

"Don't worry about those two buying the special medals, they won't be back," called out one of the vendors. "Come back and see us all anytime Dora, you're always welcome."

This time, there was no metal scraping on the curb as the old Holden crept back onto the road. With a spontaneous outburst of clapping, cheering and waving, and a bit of smoke trailing out the exhaust pipe, Mother and son departed.

"What's this about specials medals Mum; you didn't try and sell Grandad's medals did you?"

"Nie, do you tink I'm stupid like you? Dey're safe at home. Those schmucks thought they did a switcheroo on me and that I didn't know. They only got away with replicas."

"Did they pay?"

"Oh ya, and some."

"So, you chose Dora as a name for the markets?"

"And you tell me vy not? It's a good name?"

"Why did you do your cookies and sweets thing? You nearly got into trouble last time. Now we won't be able to go to these markets again either."

"I know you're a good boy. I don't drink alcohol, and you let me grow my own marijuana. I just don't smoke as much as I used to. I just had so many good heads left, and I didn't vant to waste it. So, it is always a good base, especially in the cookies. I still hold back on the lollies, not too much for the kiddies."

"From the way they were talking, you made a fair bit of money then."

"Those two thieving schmucks paid plenty for the stolen medals." Dora reached inside her oversize handbag and pulled out two wallets. "Let's see." She started to pull out the large denomination notes neatly enclosed."

"Hell Mum. You didn't."

"Of course I did. See. Even at my age I can still do it. All those years ago, all that practice picking pockets just to survive in the War. So they paid for the medals, tak?

"Oh Mum, if they'd noticed they might have hurt you."

"Nobody noticed."

Dora inverted her purse. Another 20 or so wallets and purses fell into her lap.

# **********

# MY MOST MEMORABLE MEAL

Only total memory loss might make me forget that meal. But I still have photographs as a reminder. Now I am older, and when in need of a bit of a perk up, or when a bit of melancholy hits occasionally, out comes the camphor smelling aged album with photos of that evening.

Page one displayed a yellowing newspaper clipping about a competition associated with the visit of the Miss World beauty pageant winner. The prize winner was to be coiffured, then, chauffeur driven to the winner of the previous year's national best restaurant competition. There, the newspaper winner would have a four-course dinner in the company of Miss World and the Miss New Zealand competition winner.

It did not start too well as the limousine arrived late and so the coiffure was missed.

Page two was an enlarged photograph of three seated people snuggled closely. The male in the centre was a very young and smug looking me. Each side a crowned beauty feigned kissing me on the cheek.

I had never won anything like a raffle before. Suddenly, I was to have two beautiful women as escorts, and consume cuisine prepared by the finest chefs. What more could a man in his late teens desire?

Page three was similar to page two, except standing behind me was our exclusive waitress. I was the thorn between three roses.

Then there was a succession of publicity photos, without me in the frame. The owner was first up, with his hands almost indecently placed in areas on the beauty queens, which would have resulted in a slapped face in other circumstances. I vividly recalled the owner's wife watching, her dark eyes looking blacker than they were when I first walked in, and now reflecting the look of death each time she looked at her husband.

The owner's wife, their three sons and their wives, and all the other creatures of the Ark, passed through the lenses of the photographers. That was followed by a horde of tongue-happy reporters trying to interview the beauty winners to extract some pearls of wisdom.

Meanwhile, our personal waitress had led me away to a comfortable lounge and I was given a fancy glass with a straw, slices of lemon adorned the side, and sugar crystals coated the top. The glass contained chilled lemonade. The only thing missing was an umbrella on a floating orange. The waitress apologized when she gave me the drink and she sat on the lounge beside me.

"Unfortunately because you're under 21 we can't give you alcohol." She was right of course. In those days that was the law, and they had forgotten to put a lower age limit on the competition.

The photo and reporter interview sessions continued. I did not really mind, because the waitress, though older than me, had the same music tastes and interests. I was just hoping she could not hear the rumbling of my empty stomach. My concentration on our conversation blotted out the other happenings nearby.

Hand clapping brought me back to the awareness of the outside world.

"That's all everyone, thanks for coming," said a voice.

I looked down at my watch. Two hours had rapidly passed since my temporary seated pose at the dining table.

"Ah, do I get to eat now?"

"Oh no. The evening dinner patrons will start to arrive shortly. I was on lunch shift and due to leave an hour ago but I enjoyed talking to you so I stayed."

"So there's no meal then?"

"Not now, it's too late."

"What about the prize?"

"I guess meeting the girls was it." She looked at me as though examining livestock for purchase. "Please don't think I'm being forward. I'm not doing anything tonight, so, because that tight old bastard wouldn't honour his dinner prize, and if you'd like, I'll take you home, cook up a nice fat steak and play some of my favourite albums."

I accepted, and she took me home.

She prepared the tastiest fillet steak, rocket salad and crispy chips I have ever eaten; followed up with my first ever "Bombed Alaska."

That was only second to the energy replacing freshly squeezed orange juice, bacon, eggs, French toast, tomatoes and sausages served up as breakfast in her bed the next morning. That breakfast was definitely my most memorable meal.

# **********

# RING, RING

9:30 am

Ring, ring. Ring, ring, went the telephone.

"Hello"

"Is that the Medical Centre?" The male voice was deep and gruff.

"No. You've got the wrong number."

"No I haven't, I dialed the Medical Centre."

"I think you've dialed the last four numbers the wrong way round. You need 9898; you've dialed 8989."

"The line must be crossed."

"Well, try 9898 and you'll get them."

The line went dead.

"Who was that Darling?" my wife asked.

"Just the usual Sweetie, another wrong number for the Medical Centre. No apology."

"Why can't people be more careful?" she replied. "Or at least polite? That's the fourth wrong number for the Doctors this morning?

"About that."

Ring ring. Ring ring.

"Hello."

After a click, the line went dead.

"Probably the same person," I called out to my wife.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

"Hello again."

"Why isn't that the Medical Centre." It was the same gruff voice.

"Probably would be if you dialed 9898 instead of 8989. So try 9898."

"But I pressed redial. That's meant to be the Medical Centre."

"Not if you pressed the wrong numbers to begin with."

"How come you've got the number for the Centre?"

"I haven't. We get a lot of wrong miss-dialed numbers for them. So try 9898. That's the number for the Medical Centre

"That's what I dialed."

"No you didn't."

The line clicked out.

"Same rude person, Sweetie."

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

"Hello. This is not the Medical Centre. Who would you like to speak to?"

"At last. I knew I was right. Can I make an appointment for this morning?"

"If you wish. Anyone in particular you want to see?"

"No, it's not urgent."

"Well, in that case why don't you come straight away. Ask the nurse to do an ear check. That might solve many of the other problems as well."

"O.K." The line went dead.

"Same one?" asked my wife.

"Yes Dear."

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

"Hello."

"Is Dr Brandenberg available this morning?" This time it was the voice of and elderly lady.

"I don't know. You'll have to ring the Medical Centre at 9898 to find out."

"Because, I really need to see him about the pains in my legs. It's something worse than the stomach thingy that he's been treating me for."

"Have you tried phoning 9898 for an appointment instead of 8989? You do know you've got the wrong number?"

"I don't really mind what time I see him as long as it's this morning. I have a bad heart too you see."

"I see, perhaps you should pop in as soon as you can, first thing this morning."

"Lovely, I'll do that."

"Ask the nurse to do a check of your ears too."

"I will. Thank you very much. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

I looked at my wife as she walked into the room shaking her head in disbelief. "You know you could get into trouble for doing that."

"How? I'm not holding out that I'm a medical practitioner."

"No, but telling people to get their ears checked is wrong."

"Well, you've answered the phone before; most of them don't listen when I tell them they've got the wrong number."

"I know, but the Medical Centre must get fed up with people just turning up claiming they've got appointments; and wonder why everyone wants their ears checked. Just leave the answer-phone on."

"What? And miss my once in a life-time chance of an important call from the Prime Minister, or the President of the USA, seeking my advice. Not my damn fault they're deaf."

"You're a bloody idiot. A child's brain in a man's body." My wife gave me a one-fingered sign as she turned and left the room.

"I love you too Sweetie. A coffee would be nice."

"Get it yourself!"

# **********

# ON THE ROOF

During my early primary school years, but using a modern parlance, I could neither confirm nor deny the existence of nuclear weapons in our household. I am using the evasive phraseology of visiting U.S. Navy warships as a parallel to the possible existence of a shotgun in our household at that time. In retrospect, perhaps my parents thought they had something worse than nuclear weapons in the house.

Dad always had a shot-gun for the duck-shooting season, but denied owning one. My parents were sensible enough to keep its possible existence, within our large house, a secret from me. A modern psychologist would have analysed me as being a child linked into obsession with cowboys and Indians; the American Indian of course. At that age there was no other type. The deeply dark-skinned man and his wife at the green-grocers were just people who spoke with a funny accent and moved their heads back and forth in a strange way. They did not wear feathers in their hair either

My only companion was a little fox terrier, which followed me everywhere, except inside. It knew my Mum's rules. Its home was the kennel at the side of the house.

With our house isolated, semi-remote from the city, and surrounded by native bush; it was inevitable our lives would be touched by the wild-life nearby. Fantails frequently flew inside an open door, and panicked, unable to fly out through the large glass kitchen windows. Our desperate efforts to catch them under a towel, as they pounded fruitlessly against the glass, was to prevent them inflicting damage on themselves.

Near success was bad. That meant we only managed to grab some of the tail-feathers. To the unfortunate bird it meant loss of directional control, and even more erratic flight patterns foiling further well intended grasps. Eventually, capture success meant a tiny, partly plucked, semi-tailless, part fan-tail would be released back toward the native forest from which it had strayed. After some recalibration in its flight characteristics, the reconfigured bird would eventually reach its proper habitat.

Spiders blown in by ill-directed winds, quickly built webs, and were equally quickly destroyed by my fastidious Mum wielding her straw broom. The web constructor probably equally as quickly dispatched on the sharp edges of the broom. No unwelcome crawlies here. She was so brave; except when it came to wetas, that weird creature that looked like a cross between a cock-roach and a praying mantis. Their presence was heralded by her scream, a rapid rush to her side by my Dad, eyes following the line of her pointing finger; then followed the down-thump of a heavy boot accurately directed by my heroic Dad; who removed the crushed remains, using the hearth brush to sweep it into a fire shovel, and disposing it onto the compost heap. Actually my Dad never wore boots, except gumboots when required. He normally wore standard shoes, but heavy boots sounds far more dramatic.

Those were the minor disturbance to household routines. The major pests were possums. Dad, diligently cut off any over-hanging branches from forest trees which neared the roof of the house, in a pre-emptive action. Somehow, some would still manage to get on the roof and find, or force, a hole to crawl into the warm space between the roof and the ceiling.

That should not seem to be a threat as they were not inside the house. They were quiet during the day, sleeping safe and secure in the dark warm space. Possum sleep patterns are the reverse of humans; they emerge during the night hours. To my parents, trying to sleep, the sounds of scurrying possums above their head, urinating, defecating, mating and chasing each other was disconcerting, and caused sleep-deprivation of the worst kind. Therefore, invading possums had to be dealt with, and evicted as quickly as possible. Too many nights of interrupted sleep meant Dad was grumpy. Too many nights of possums urinating meant the liquid seeping through, left stains on a pristine white ceiling. That made Mum more volatile than open tins of petrol around cigarette smokers tossing away burning butts.

Searching for entry holes, and blocking them, had to be done carefully. Any possums trapped inside during their sleeping time meant they were trapped inside. It could be weeks before they eventually died, and the rotting carcasses made even worse problems of greater ceiling stains, and disgusting smells of rotting corpses permeating from above. Possum traps were impractical as the roof incline meant traps simply slipped off the roof, even if slightly touched by a curious possum. The clatter of the trap hitting the ground at night caused all within the house to suddenly levitate a metre or two above their bed in fright.

No. There was only one answer, a shotgun and a lot of patience. A rifle was impractical as the bullet from any missed shot would travel way beyond the property boundary, and could cause injury or death to an innocent party, or neighbours' animals.

My Father was captain of the cowboys. He would deputise the best shot from his duck-shooting acquaintances, set him up in a comfortable chair outside, with a clear view of the roofline, and the deputy would wait until the possums emerged for their night-time frolics. It was necessary that a good moon was available to outline the silhouettes, with clear enough skies allowing the moonlight to have effect. Accuracy of shot was essential.

Hopefully, the possums would emerge early in the night, which they generally did. My Mother and I would be safely settled inside, often with my Father casually reading the evening newspaper. Outside, the shotgun-toting deputy sat, waiting for the intruders to emerge. The indication they had would be announced by a series of loud explosions from his discharging shotgun.

Once Dad was satisfied that no more shooting would occur, or on a summons from the shooter, we would emerge to inspect the results.

In most cases the corpses had fallen from the roof. A large axe would administer any coup-de-grace, where it was required. Some, which had not fallen, would be recovered the next day, either by using a looped rope tossed in the hope of it hooking over the corpse, or the use of a long ladder, and carefully recovering the corpse. The same ladder was used to locate and close off any further entry holes under the roof.

The first, and only time I witnessed the whole process, was when none of the deputies was available at short notice for the task, which had to be completed with some urgency. Important overseas guests were arriving to visit the farm with an eye to purchase it, and they would be staying for a few days. The need to be rid of the invaders before they arrived was critical. It could counter all the other efforts of re-wallpapering, and painting the house both in and out to present it in the most favourable light.

The gardens and lawns were in pristine condition. The rose gardens were resplendent in their many colours, and giving the greatest display I ever remembered.

It was just that several possums suddenly chose a roof invasion a few days before the guests' arrival.

With Mum panicking about ceiling stains appearing, and Dad worried about the unsettling night-time noises, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

I watched in awe outside as the pre-possum shoot preparations were made before sunset. Extra chairs were placed to enable Mum and me to watch. She had prepared dinner to be ready as the sun was going down and it was eaten by the time the night's cloak had overtaken the sun's rays for the day. The night sky was mostly clear but the moon barely provided sufficient light for movement without a torch. Nevertheless, I sat proudly in my chair watching Dad sitting, cradling an open and unloaded double-barrel shotgun. The red-cased 12-bore shotgun cartridges sat within his easy reach in a shallow dish on a low table to his front.

Mum sat in her chair placed to Dad's left and slightly behind his. Mine was to Mum's left and furthest away from the deadly weapon.

While they chatted casually, my eyes stayed fixed on the dark outline of the roof. I'm sure I would've spotted the movement of a caterpillar over a roof ripple, had one moved. But such a concentrated effort by young eyes soon causes them to discover an apparent sand aggravation, which results in eyelids involuntarily closing, frequently, for a few brief seconds at a time. My terrier was sitting loyally at my feet.

It was during one of these longer eye-closures that my sub-consciousness registered my Father's words.

"Ahh. Here we go."

I forced my eyes open and saw the dark outline of a possum on the top ridgeline of the roof. I desperately wanted to snatch a couple of shells from the tray, hand them over, and watch him blast away.

"You know," he said, turning to my Mum. "My Father told me that when he was a youngster working on some farms in the backblocks, his employers often used to give employees possum meat in their sandwiches. He reckoned it wasn't too bad, just a little bit strong to taste, and quite chewy."

"Yes," she replied. "I'd heard that. It didn't matter how much you simmered it, it stayed chewy with a strong taste."

I wanted to scream, "shoot, shoot," but knew better not to.

The possum had moved off the ridge, a second appeared.

"Getting interesting now," said my Father. "Any more?"

As if in response to his words, a third appeared. A few minutes passed, which seemed like hours to me, and there was no increase in the numbers; only the three now visible, all moving slowly around the roof.

He leaned forward, picked up two shells and loaded them into the twin barrels. Then, before closing the gun, he stood up and nodded in the direction of my Mother. She, in turn, stood and grabbed my arm to pull me back a couple of paces further behind and to the side, away from the shotgun.

Satisfied we were safely out of harms way, he closed the gun, and put the butt to his shoulder.

"Damn hard to sight them over the barrel in this light."

"Do your best Darling. Just get rid of the nasty things."

When the explosion of the shells from both barrels occurred, I jumped with fright. There was a yelp and scratching sounds from my terrier's paws as he tried to get traction from a sitting start before fleeing toward his kennel. It seemed my ears rang and I had gone deaf. The possum on the top ridge had disappeared.

"Well done," I barely heard my Mother.

The remaining two possums showed no reaction to the loud noise, or the disappearance of their friend and continued their slow movement. My Father had reloaded and was quickly ready for the second target.

Again the explosion rang in my ears but without my accompanying jump.

Again, a possum had been hit and its body rolled down the roof and onto the path by the house. My Father reloaded.

I aimed carefully along my arm with my imaginary shotgun and screamed "bang," milli-seconds before the third double-barrel discharge. It had no effect on the third possum.

"Bugger it. I missed. Don't do that again," said my Father. "It put me off."

He quickly reloaded. The shotgun exploded again, and the third body fell from the roof.

I wanted to run and examine the possum bodies. Mum held my arm tightly as my Father said, "We'll leave that to clear up tomorrow, son. You can look at them in the daylight. Bedtime for you now though."

After the shotgun and shells disappeared somewhere inside the house, my Father brought the chairs back inside. By then I was in bed, the excitement of the night and the next day's possibilities prevented a quick fall into sleep.

Disappointment discovering the bodies already removed when I woke was soon replaced, watching the sudden influx of workers doing a final clean up around the yards, and painting surrounding fences before the arrival of the visitors. Even the large stones bordering each side of the lengthy metal driveway received a long overdue recoat of white paint.

My Father arranged an even harsher prune-back of nearby branches. Inside, my Mother had made sure any traces of cobwebs had gone, and the high ceiling was pristine white with no possum urine stains. The guest-room had received special attention. Fancy lace doilies sat on the backs of all the lounge chairs. A finely embroidered table cloth covered the length of the long wooden table and cork-board place-mats were set out. My Grandmother's highly polished matching trio of precious multi-candle holding solid-silver candelabras were placed strategically along the lengthy table. It seemed all was ready for the important guests.

A-Day, for arrival day, came the next day after the last of the workers had packed up their equipment and departed. My

Mother's early appointment at the hairdresser was followed with a seemingly endless mirror trial examination of which clothes to wear. Then came my turn; supervised by my Mother. My terrier had already been chained beside its kennel. Dad's dogs were well locked away near the implement shed in their own kennels.

When the sound of car tyres on gravel announced the arrival of guests, my Mother licked her fingers and gave my eyebrows a last minute line straightening, and my hair an unnecessary miniscule adjustment to the parting. My Father was dressed pretty much normally, the way he did every day. We emerged from the house. The sky was grey and overcast.

A lady and a man emerged unaided from each side of the car. They were not wearing crowns or even flowing capes. I looked further down the driveway for another car carrying the important guests. My Mother and Father stepped forward, and handshakes, introductions and greetings were exchanged. Somewhere in there I too had been introduced, but I had been distracted by the sight of a black feral cat stalking a fantail flitting around the lower branches of a nearby tree. I wondered if it was a rescued fantail whose flight tail-feathers had been reconfigured during saving. I broke free from my Mother's grip and ran toward the stalking cat.

"Bugger off you black mongrel bastard," I screamed.

The startled cat scooted to the protection of the forest and disappeared. The fantail, unfazed by my action, continued flitting through the branches pursuing the small flying insects. I returned to the small group at the door, but could not understand the reason for the black looks of death from both my parents, or why my Mother's sharp fingernails were suddenly pinching the skin on my back. When I reacted with a squeal, she stopped, and smiled at me in a strange way.

My Father and the man departed to look around the farm and out-buildings before the threatening ominous low clouds began to drop their contents. I had been confined to my boring bedroom with its new, plain, dull, cream-coloured, girly-style embossed wallpaper and flower patterned curtains. I preferred the previous wallpaper with its racing cars and rocket ships. I had been told threateningly to amuse myself re-reading the accumulated pile of comics. Though with honesty I could not say I read them, as I was too young, but the black and white drawings were examined with great detail. My Mother showed the lady through all the rooms around the house, except my room, and proudly revealed the massive amount of storage areas, and then the results of all her kitchen skills by showing off her filled preserving jars containing fruit from our own orchard.

The men returned from their exploration, and afternoon tea was presented. Light rain had begun. My Mother brought me a few sandwiches, and in appreciation of my excellent behaviour and quietness during that period, also brought a full selection of colouring pencils and crayons to colour in the boring black and white cartoon characters of the comics. The gloom outside quickly became dark enough for lights to be switched on. Night would follow soon anyway.

For a while I coloured some of the figures in the comics, but became disheartened that the large heads of the crayons forced me to go outside the lines too often. I looked around for somewhere to draw my own characters, and colour them in.

With the rumble of distant thunder, I knew there would be lightning at some stage. That sometimes meant we lost power and I was given my own battery torch. My Father would be talking in his office with the man guest; my Mother preparing dinner, and talking with lady guest. The rain was a little heavier and the wind had become noisy. I did not care. I was being left alone and got on with my new self-appointed task.

A voice soon summoned me to dinner. I was surprised that the guests laughed at me as I entered the room. While my Father looked skyward my Mother said, "Why do you do this?"

I was frog-marched into the bathroom hearing my Father say to the guests, "He's got a real craze about cowboys and Indians, especially putting on war-paint."

The heavy use of soap and flannel, roughly applied to my face, must have finally removed my carefully applied war-paint before I received a painful flick to my ear, and I returned to sit at the table. The candelabras reflected the glow of the candles and would have looked good in a teepee.

While the others had soup in bowls, I drank mine from a cup. That was easier than the way I used to do it; slurping from the bowl.

My Mother removed the plates and disappeared into the kitchen. Soon after her voice called out, "Darling, can you carve the roast please?"

My Father excused himself, and headed off to the kitchen.

The man guest looked at me and smiled.

"Do you help your Dad on the farm?"

"Yeah. When they're shearing or drafting stock."

"Do you enjoy doing that?"

"Hell no. That knobbly sheep crap gets between your toes; and the bloody cattle, well they fart a lot, drop their runny steaming shit on the floor, and that stinks to buggery. But it's warm to put your feet into."

My Mother had quickly returned to the table seeing the guests laughing.

"Anything important I missed?"

"No, your young man was telling us about shearing."

"Carving's done," my Father said re-entering the room.

My Mother returned to the kitchen. It was great, just like the changing of the guard by the soldiers at the fort.

The four grown-ups were talking about heads per acre and stuff, which was all quite stupid, as to be a successful farmer you need the whole sheep, not just the head. The rain and winds were really blowing a gale outside.

My Mother returned, served up the meat, and gave me lots of gravy over my vegetables and roast potato. All my food had been cut up into nice convenient spoon size lumps. Everyone started into the tasty dinner.

I watched the man as he put his hand to his head, and then stroke his hair. A few seconds later he repeated the movement and looked at his hand. On the third time he looked toward the ceiling just as a tiny trickle of water began falling steadily from above his seat. Just as he moved himself and his chair out of the way, a larger stream began pouring over the vegetables and extra slices of roast sitting on the silver serving plates.

My Mother squealed.

My Father uttered "Darn it."

I yelled, "Bugger me; the roof's pissing," and the guests simply looked surprised as they moved back from the table.

Both parents rescued what they could of the dinner and transferred it to the kitchen, and the table was then quickly festooned with buckets to catch the offending streams. Once that was done my Mother looked at me.

"Well, it's time for your bed anyway."

I know I felt disheartened as she escorted me down the hallway, and switched on the light in my room. I was not expecting her scream, and quickly looked where her finger pointed, expecting to see a possum, or at least a ghastly weta.

"What have you done?" she screamed, and burst into tears.

She was pointing at the walls I had redecorated with my own drawings of cars, tanks and rocket ships. I had drawn teepees with Indians on a different wall. My soldiers' fort was drawn on another wall. My Father and our guests came running down the hall in case my Mother needed help in fighting off an intruder.

After they had surveyed what had happened, the guests suggested that as it had been a long day, they too should retire early, and get a good night's sleep.

I was quickly and roughly put into my pyjamas, and without even my usual goodnight kiss was threateningly told to go straight to sleep. I could still hear the voices as they talked outside the guest-room.

I heard the lady guest talking.

"I hope you don't mind, but our bed is wet. There is a big flow of water pouring on it."

Both my Mother and Father were apologizing, and helped them shift their suitcases into their own room where the guests would now sleep. Soon after that, the electricity went off and I watched the eerie glow of the torches, and shadows, as they played down the long hallway. It was fun but it did make me worry a little that maybe some ghosts were coming. I don't know where my Mother and Father slept that night; probably in the fourth bedroom.

The guests left early the next morning, and never came back. My Father went to town to arrange for the tree that fell on

the power and phone lines to be removed. As it was now a beautiful sun-shining day, a builder checked out the roof.

Apparently the large holes in the roof had been caused by a badly aimed shotgun.

Having visitors is a lot of fun for me. Eventually we sold the farm about four years later. I do not know the details, as I was sent to stay with an aunty when the next lot of buyers arrived.

# **********

# A HORSE'S TALE

Grandpa was sitting on the couch reading a magazine when his grand-daughter Penny, entered the lounge looking very sullen, mouth pouted, as if sulking

"What's the matter little one?"

Penny glares at him but does not respond.

"You know, Penny; when I was a young man, like you are a young lady now, sometimes when I was angry I used to tell my Grandpa what was wrong. I used to tell him because I couldn't tell my Mum or Dad. They'd only growl at me and tell me not to be stupid. But my Grandpa was different."

Penny looked at Grandpa as if trying to figure him out.

"And he was very good at keeping secrets," Granpa went on, "just like I am."

"Maybe," replied Penny.

"You wanna tell me about it? Come on, sit here. I need a cuddle anyway."

The ten year old looked at the old man; paused, then moved onto the couch beside him. Slowly, as if not wanting to frighten her with any fast movement, the old man raised his arm, put it behind her head, and lightly rested his forearm on her shoulder. Then reached across behind her head and lifted her long pony-tail to sit on his arm. She cuddled in close to his chest.

"It's just not fair Granddad," said the petite little girl.

"What's happening then?"

"It's Sam."

"What? Your horse Samantha?"

"I call her Sam."

"Yes. I remember when you got her. That was for your seventh birthday. Now let's see? How long ago was that?"

"Oh, Granddad. You're hopeless. Can't you even count at your age? I'm ten now."

"Oh yes, that's right. So that's, erhh, what, how many years ago?

"Three years," she snapped back. She looked up at him, nodded, and rolled her eyes. "Sometimes, Granddad you make me wonder."

The old man grinned as he looked at the face and hazel eyes, reminding of his daughter at the same age. "Yes, that's right. Ten minus seven. That's three, right?"

She looked up and with another look of condescension and rolled her eyes again.

"Okay. What's happening with Samantha?"

"It's Sam I said. I only call her Samantha when I'm angry with her."

"All right then. Get on with it. I'll be dead before you tell me what's wrong."

Again the head and eyes routine followed. "Can't you be serious, Granddad?"

"I'm sorry. Go on."

"Brian wants to sell her. But he can't. She's mine."

"Why don't you call Brian, Dad? He's been with your Mum from when you were two years old. He loves you like his own little girl."

"He's not my Dad. I'm not his little girl."

"I know Darling. But when Dad died in that horrible car smash just after you were born, it was very tough for Mummy to keep the little farm running by herself."

"It's Mum, not Mummy."

"Of course; but without Brian's help, your Mum would've had to sell the farm. You know, he let his own farm get quite run down when he was helping your Mum. Then they became good friends, and got married when you were three. So he's been like a real Dad since you were a wee one."

"But it's not the same."

"I know Darling. You see, Brian never got married before, so he never had any children. And when he saw you, it was just like he had a little girl of his own. Before that he was all by himself, just like your Mum. It was sad, but it became happy; a bit like when Mum bought Sam for your birthday."

"Mum bought Sam so I could ride my own horse around the farm."

"Yes Darling, but Sam also had another task, remember?"

"You mean that ugly little foal."

"Yep. That ugly little foal was a thoroughbred and worth a lot of money. Well; that foal's real Mum died too, but it still needed some mother's milk because it was so little. And poor Sam had a foal that had died when it was born. So Samantha had lots of milk, but no baby. That was when your Mum bought her. It was a perfect match. Sam nursed the young foal as if it was her own and it grew into a fine strong yearling colt, just like you, but you'd be a filly. The young colt sold for a very good price and helped pay off lots of debts. But Sam was already ten years old then, now she's over thirteen. In horse years, that's older than me."

The little girl giggled and snuggled in closer.

"There was a horse named Sugar Puff who lived for 56 human years. Sugar Puff died a few years ago in 2007. That was a freak. Many horses die before they are twelve. Some live to fourteen. Haven't you noticed poor old Samantha just stands around in the same corner most of the day? That's because her muscles are all tight, and her bones are now aching; all from really old injuries."

"Sam, not Samantha," repeated the little girl. "What injuries?"

The old man noticed his daughter and Brian had quietly moved inside the room, and unseen by his granddaughter, were listening to the conversation.

"Sam never recovered fully after her heroic act in the hills many years ago."

"What was that, Granddad?" The little girl had looked up in surprise.

"When Sam was about four years old, her then owner and another man went riding in the hills. There had been a lot of rain. They were on a very narrow track above a very high steep drop-off. Suddenly a huge slip of rocks and mud came sliding down and wiped them off the path, and over the steep bank."

His granddaughter sat up further, eyes wide and looked at him. "What happened then Granddad?"

"The other horse got killed. Sam's owner broke his leg and had other injuries. The other rider had a broken arm, broken collar-bone and head injuries."

"What about Sam?"

"She too was very badly injured with lots of cuts and bruising, But. She was able to stand up. Even though she was hurting, she allowed the two injured men to somehow scramble on her back. Through the rain and thunder, slippery mud, and the weather getting colder, Sam carried them. Her slow and sure footing prevented the men from falling off. Despite all her injuries, for hour after hour she carried the heavy load on her back. Within sight of a farmer's house, Sam collapsed and fell over from exhaustion and her injuries. The riders' thought she was dead. The farmer saw them, and got an ambulance for the men. As soon as the ambulance left, he tended to Sam and saw she was still alive."

His granddaughter's jaw dropped.

"The farmer was a retired vet, so he knew what to do. It took many months for Sam to recover, and longer until she was able to walk and then run normally. Samantha was a real hero around the district. She had saved the lives of two very foolish people who would have died without her help. Now she is past thirteen, she is feeling and suffering from all the injuries caused those many years ago. When horses are old like that, they have a retirement farm, just like an old peoples' village. They look after old horses which live together until they get really old, and die. They give them medicines for their aches and pains, and the horses all live out a happy life. Don't you think Samantha deserves something like that?"

The little girl looked at him with a sad look on her face. "Yes, your right Granddad. I knew Sam was special. I'll let her go to the special farm. I'm going out right now, and give her two special big lumps of horse sugar, and thank her for saving those silly people."

She bounded off the couch and out the door as if pursued by a rabid dog.

The two listening adults approached Granddad who was now nodding his head.

"I didn't know Sam helped save two people," said his daughter. "Who were they?"

"I don't know," replied Granddad. "Perhaps a phantom and a ghost? I don't care. I didn't think names important. But something like that could've happened couldn't it? It does in fairy tales. At least you've now got a little missy that's happy about Sam's departure."

The two adults grinned and nodded.

"But I'll be very annoyed if you try sending me off to the knackers' yard for making dog sausages or glue out of my body when I get older."

# **********

# OLD FELLAS

It was Tuesday, 11:45 a.m. Bert, the first to arrive, as usual. His bus arrived before those of his two 'amigos'. Two were widowers, the third had never married. They met twice a week at the same time and place, subject to illnesses or too inclement weather, for ten years. Together they would lunch at their local Returned Servicemen's Club in Chatswood.

Weather conditions dictated their meeting spot. Today was a clear blue sky, warm Sydney winter day. So, they would meet at the back-to-back wide wooden seats outside the bank in the open pedestrian plaza surrounded by the shopping mall. On cold or wet days, or days of excess heat, they met at the long bench inside the nearby air conditioned shopping mall.

Both benches were empty on Bert's arrival. They generally were at this time. Lunchtime had not started.

He sat on the bench facing the sun. Eyes closed, he raised his face skyward and soaked up the warmth. He thought of a lizard sunbathing on a rock to warm his body. Considering Bert's slight stature it should not take long. His only revolt against his age was to keep his small well trimmed moustache regularly dyed black, even if it contrasted with his thinned grey hair. In his youth he would have been considered small enough to be a jockey. But at least before the army service he had a full head of hair.

"Albèrt." He heard his name pronounced in the French style. He knew who it was without opening his eyes. Eyes still closed, he extended his hand. It was taken and shaken. Both men still had good solid grips despite their 80 plus years.

"Hugh," he replied, "marvellous day to be alive."

"At our age any day's a good day to be alive."

Hugh seated himself heavily as Bert moved each shoulder in a circle before opening his eyes.

"Arthritis still playing up?" asked Hugh.

"Yeah, the sun does wonders for it. Doesn't help the fingers much though."

"I've started to get a touch of it in winter, not just in the hands mind you," said Hugh. "Knees too, but that's probably due to the strain of excess weight, pot gut and all that."

"I'll write down the name of a good ointment you can use at night. It won't make your stomach shrink. Gives a bit of arthritic relief. Get it from the chemist or a super-market. Might help the knees too. Just be careful where you put your hands when you have a pee in the middle of the night. Its liniment based, it'll make your eyes water."

Both burst out laughing.

"Who ya laughing at you old pricks."

They both looked in the direction of the voice. A tall, punk-dressed teenager stared at them; chin jutting out aggressively, stood immediately to their front. His pink-died hair was set up from his head in an axe shape. Three nose rings pierced his fine long nose. One each side and one through the middle. Several more pierced each ear and one through his bottom lip.

The punk was accompanied by six youthful companions. However they all had their hair styled in the typically Middle Eastern cut for youths of that age with their heads shaved very close at the sides but longer on top. A couple had young teenage growth small black moustaches under large noses. While trying to all look different from everyone else, they had only managed to look the same among themselves.

Hugh and Bert looked at each other and grinned.

"Sorry?" said Hugh, "were you talking to us?"

"Yeah," picked up a sneering middle-easterner in his early 20's, "you and the weasel-face prick. What are you laughing at?"

The rest of the group moved threateningly closer.

"Useless old bastards," picked up another, "just piss off out of our streets and die somewhere. These are our seats."

"What's the trouble boys?" asked Bert.

"You, you big nose Dork. I'd like to take my knife out and cut that up," said another.

The youthful group and the punk laughed.

"You know, you old bastards just use up good air. Wasted on youse. Your sort should never have been born."

"Maybe they weren't, maybe they're just a couple of walking miscarriages," said another. The group laughed again.

"You old buggers boring these young gentlemen with your war stories again are you?"

Jack pushed his way through the threatening group, despite being smaller than any of the 'trouble seekers'.

"Sorry fellas," Jack went on. "They get carried away when anyone wants to listen about how they won their war medals."

Jack sat down between the two of them. "Maybe you saw Hugh's photo in the paper the other day as the oldest surviving V.C. at the last Memorial Parade."

"What's a bloody V.C.?" asked one Arab youth.

"Victoria Cross," Jack yelled at him. "Don't you silly buggers know any of your history?"

"I've heard of it," said the pink-haired punk trying to exclude himself as ignorant like the fellow members of the group.

"What's it for then?" asked a moustached youth.

"Officially the words inscribed on it are 'For Valour'. It's for the highest bravery of a serviceman, above and beyond the call of duty in saving the lives of his fellow soldiers, and on the recommendation of witnesses to the action. In all of history of all the wars since 1856, only about 1200 have been awarded."

The group fell silent as they looked at the three old men.

"About one third are awarded posthumously. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah," answered the punk. "After you're dead."

"That's right. The last posthumous one was awarded in the Falklands' War of 1982. Colonel Jones died attacking the Argies on Goose Green. It was the only one awarded in that war. Then there have been a couple awarded recently to brave soldiers carrying wounded friends off the battlefield while being shot at by Arabs in Afghanistan."

The members of the young group looked at each other.

"That's the same as the medal Hugh here got," said Jack pointing towards Hugh.

"Nearly cost him his life fighting for his country and the people back home. As for Bert here, he got a D.F.C. flying Spitfires, shooting down German planes in the Battle of Britain."

"What's a D.F.C.?" asked another.

"You boys should really spend your time reading a bit instead of blocking up the streets and causing us old guys' trouble. It's a Distinguished Flying Cross. My little Spitfire jockey here was a real ace. Shot down 26 of the dreaded Hun. Kept going back up he did. Got himself shot down three times. He managed to parachute out safely each time. Hated parachuting though didn't you?" he looked to Bert.

Bert just nodded.

"What'd you do?" asked the pink-haired punk.

"Nothing much. These guys got lead medals. I just got lead from the Middle East desert campaign. You Arabs will know where the Middle East is." Jack rolled up his sleeve showing three small round white scars on the under side of his forearm. "Three holes here, two in the shoulder. That made me shit scared. I turned to run and got one in the arse. That really got me riled. But I won't show ya that, unless you want to kiss it better."

Jack looked directly into the eyes of each of the group. "Those were the marks of my medals. I carry them with me, unseen, all the time."

Then Jack looked directly into the light brown eyes of the pink haired punk. "But I guess none of my body piercing was as brave as all of yours. I didn't want mine, I hated pain, and was scared shitless never knowing whether the next hole made in my body was going to give me one second to live, or a proper lifetime like I hoped God had planned when I was born."

"Shit, these holes hurt at the time. Even now they hurt in the cold weather. But that makes me think about all my good mates that died for all the good things, and all the good people we used to have in this country. Now I realise they wasted their lives. It was just a bloody great waste trying to protect this country. We woulda been better off under the Germans or the Japs."

Jack put as much venom into his stare at the young punk as he could manage. "They used to shoot troublemakers."

The pink haired punk went visibly red-faced.

"C'mon," the punk said to the others. "Let's go."

"Nothing personal Mister," said one of the young Arabs.

"See ya round," said another.

Grunts issued from several others as they departed. They were still within earshot when the three old fellows heard one of the group comment, "Shit man, did you see those bullet wounds."

The other replied, "26 bloody German planes."

"Wonder what he did for that V.C. though?"

The three old fellows sat silently soaking up the sun for several more minutes.

"I'm getting hungry," said Hugh.

"Me too," replied Jack.

"Don't worry. We've still got plenty of time to make it for lunch," said Hugh.

"Thank God for the pensioner discount; I get an extra beer. Better still, I get a decent meal with no dishes to do," said Bert.

Getting up slowly, they began the 100 metre trek to club.

"Jack, you never did explain to us how you got those scars on your arm. You didn't get them in some heroic action did you?" asked Bert, a wide grin on his face.

"Heroic? Hell no! A bloody outbreak of boils. Went through the camp like dysentery they did. Big buggers they were. Left nasty holes. Some guys dug 'em out with bayonets."

"At least you described Bert accurately, Jack'" said Hugh."

"D.F.C.?"

The three in chorus said "Dumb Friggin' Catholic."

"Me flying a spitfire? You know I get a nose bleed and airsick going up an elevator," said Bert. "How dare you identify me as a crasher. I've always been able to out-drink you two.

"As for you Hugh. In your trusted position, I'll never know how you got delayed and stranded behind enemy lines, with a truckload of nurses. Awarding you a medal for just driving a truck out, even under artillery fire? You got lost in the first place."

All three were laughing as they passed through the swinging entry doors of the Returned Services Club, and waved to the on-duty receptionist before passing through to the dining lounge and gaming room. The receptionist cast her eyes up to the three framed and enlarged old sepia tainted photos of Bill, Hugh and Jack in uniform. The three men, then in their early twenties, were proudly displaying their white ministerial collars and crosses on their lapels to denote their padre status in the services.

Above the photos, the large highly polished bronze plaque read; "To our three local army padre heroes, all multiple recipients of Commendations for Outstanding Bravery in different theatres of W.W.2, for saving lives and souls serving both God and their country."

# **********

# THE VISITOR

"Where is Mr. Bill Stewart, nurse?" asked the slightly dark-skinned young man.

One of the two nurses, leaning on the verandah railing, keeping an eye on their dozen or so charges among the outdoor area, raised her hand and pointed toward several small blocks of rose gardens surrounded by grass verges. Smooth concrete pathways meandered between the blocks.

"Just down there."

"Which one is he?"

"Oh sorry," the nurse replied. "I presumed you knew him. He's the one in the wheelchair wearing the yellow sun-cap." She pointed again. "His back's to us, he's just enjoying the afternoon sun. Careful when you approach, I mean don't startle him, he's probably miles away with his thoughts."

"What? Dementia?"

"No. Hell no. He's sometimes as cheeky as ever, though lots less now since his youngest son died in an accident a few weeks ago. He really went downhill then. His youngest was the only one of his four children to regularly visit and stay to talk. Actually, you're his first visitor since then."

"I see him. Thanks nurse." The visitor walked down the wheel-chair ramp, and along the freshly swept concrete path. Already feeling the warmth of the mid-Spring sun on his back, he could understand the patients wanting to spend the time outdoors. The man he had come to see was almost 50 metres away at the extreme end of the gardens. Nobody else was closer than 25 metres.

As he got to within 15 metres, he thumped his feet down a little harder to warn of his approach, but the concrete merely absorbed the sound. Instead, he tried to think of some song to whistle, but his mind had gone blank. Anything would do, so he pursed his lips, blew, but nothing came out. He licked his lips and tried to get some saliva in his mouth, then tried again.

This was stupid. He felt nervous and more eerily unsettled the closer he got. Some tuneless whistle finally managed to emerge, and the wheelchair seated man's head under the yellow cap slowly turned.

"Mr. Stewart?"

"Och . Aye. That be I," came the reply in a broad Scottish accent.

'Strange,' thought the visitor. His grandfather had never mentioned the man was Scottish.

"Good morning sir, I'm...."

"What? Well bugger me. Have they finally given me a knighthood?" interrupted the old man.

"No sir, I mean that's not what I'm here for."

"Damn. If I'm not a knight, you'd better call me Bill.

The visitor put out his right hand and was surprised at the strong grip response to his handshake. He also noticed that the Scottish accent had quickly disappeared. A friendly grin looked back at him. The sun protected fair-skin reflected the 81 year age of the wheelchair occupant but the features, especially the strength portrayed in the eyes, seemed to show someone 20 years younger.

"I have something that should've been given to you 15 years ago when Granddad died." He lifted his left hand which contained an ornately carved oblong box, longer but slightly shallower than a shoe box, a piece of aged flax twine tied across its centre. A name tag was tucked neatly under the place where the twine crossed. He gently placed it on the old man's lap. As he did so he noticed that the old man had no legs below the knee. He had not noticed initially because the old man's legs were covered with a thin blanket.

"Gee, it's a heavy bugger. My God, it's beautiful too." The old man removed the small name-tag, examining it briefly; then let his hands softly flow over the grooves and intricate shapes of the box surface.

"It's actually what's in the box that's the gift, but the box is part of it."

"Your grandfather you say?"

"Yes sir. He said that many years ago you were closer to him than any of his brothers or sisters; even his own children."

The old man raised a pale white hand off the box to indicate silence. Then he lowered his head again, continuing stroking the box. It was perhaps two minutes before he stopped. He then placed his hands at both ends of the box and slowly raised it to his forehead.

"Matiu, my dear friend. Thank you. I think of you often."

He lowered the box to his lips and kissed it gently, before replacing it on his lap.

The silence continued for a further couple of minutes and the visitor saw the old man wipe tears from his eyes with his hand.

"So. You must be one of Matiu's grandsons.

"Yes, I'm Wiremu. Both my father and me; both of us are Wiremu I mean. Poppa insisted my father named me after you. Everybody calls me Wiri."

"Just like Bill. Or Billy is short for William."

Wiri fidgeted slightly in anticipation of Bill opening the box; but the old man merely continued slowly caressing it with his fingers.

"Can you stay for a while? Even though the dear old bugger's been dead for a long time I'd like to talk with someone from his family."

"Sure. I'm not in any hurry."

"We'd better find somewhere for you to sit." Bill looked toward a wooden three-person garden seat about five metres away. A slim old man, chin leaning on his walking sticks had just moved in, and sat there alone.

"Bugger off you nosey old bastard," yelled Bill. "I'll run you down or knock your sticks out when I'm on my scooter. Go play with yourself you nosey git."

The stick-man mumbled an obscenity, and made a maximum effort to stand. After rocking backward and forward a few times while leaning forward over his walking sticks, he made it to his feet, then after a minor balance adjustment, and a couple of short steps, he shuffled his way along the concrete path, a scowl on his face, still mumbling obscenities.

"The wrinklies here are a lot of nosey buggers. Can you wheel me over to the bench? Then, you can sit down. I'm not letting go of this box."

Wiri sat on the end of the seat watching the old man continue to stroke the box.

"You know your Grandpa taught me lots of things. Some still influence me today. He even taught me enough Maori to understand a conversation, though I didn't speak it very well. Can't understand a bloody word now though. Haven't tried to for 60 odd years."

Wiri nodded in silence.

"But I still do the daily newspaper crossword. He spent hours teaching me the subtle clues, hidden meanings in words, and techniques. Eventually I got it. I think of him most times I start a crossword. He made me look at words in a different light for clues to the real meaning."

The old man breathed in deeply, exhaled loudly, and patted the box. "That bloody insidious cancer. He fought it 'til the end."

Bill raised the box and looked in Wiri's direction enquiringly. "Why 15 years?"

"Before the cancer took him, Grandad was quite forceful, even had it written in his will, that this unopened box and its contents should pass to you. Dear old Poppa, as I called him, had so much stuff he accumulated over the years, it took a small truck to take it all home. Grandma didn't want all that stuff around as a reminder. But she gave strict instructions to make sure the items with names on were given to the named people. To be honest, Poppa had become estranged from his children as they got older."

"Yes," interrupted Bill. "I remember we talked about that."

"Do you remember what it was about?"

"Very, very well. I was having the same problem with my older children. In fact it's still the same now. Money. Though I don't have any. I just annoy them now by staying alive."

"Anyway, your box got put away with lots of stuff in an old garage on the family farm."

"You've still got the farm then?"

"Yeah. The way Poppa set it up years before he died, it's all in trust so we can't sell it."

"He was a wiser man than me."

"Grandma threatened death on anyone who opened the labeled boxes. So when she visited the farm recently and found out Dad hadn't sorted out all the stuff, she went ballistic. Man, I'd never seen her like that. Maybe it was her Polish ancestry but boy, did she let fly."

Bill chuckled quietly as the visions of his friend's wife flooded into his brain. Then it dawned on him. Those memories were nearly 60 years old. He had not seen her or even a photograph of her since they were all in the late teens and early 20's.

"What about that massive kauri tree on the farm? Still there?"

"Yeah. Poppa put a preservation order on it. All rights vested in the Forest and Bird Protection Society. Somehow he set up a trust for the tree, and they inspect its health every six months. Poppa doesn't dare touch it as he forfeits occupancy of the land if the tree is cut down."

"I lost all contact with your Granddad for about 40 years," said Bill.

"Yeah. Poppa told me. You don't know how happy he was after you made contact again even though it was only 3 years before he died."

"Me too. The problem was, living so far apart; we never actually saw each other again, only talked on the phone. After he died your Gran emailed me a recent photo. So I have two wonderful memories; a young vibrant Matiu and a photo of a serious yet wise looking old man. I think I would've walked past him in the street; but not if I saw his eyes"

"When Gran saw Dad still had your box, she went hyper-allistic and called him names I could never think of. I reckon lots of them were in Polish too. I'd never seen Dad go red with embarrassment. It looks kind of funny on a Maori face. At least it did on Dad's. Well, he was so scared he shot through for a couple of days, which was probably just as well. Over the years, Dad had picked over some of the loose items. Some were pretty valuable artifacts that Poppa had accumulated. Dad got quite a bit of money for some. Attached to lots of them were letters about their origins. Poppa had really done his research. Those items Dad couldn't sell to collectors he gave to museums and so on. Gran gave the box to me to deliver to you."

Bill lowered his head and nodded in disapproval. "A lifetime's history of collecting sold for instant cash."

Wiri became fidgety.

"You know," said Wiri. "I think Grandma was the only one other than Poppa who knows what's in that box. I'm terrified to think what Gran would've done if she ever thought that Dad had untied that box."

Bill's hand began caressing the box again, each time skipping over the twine, and especially the place where it was knotted.

"How is your Gran?"

"She always seems busy, even at her age. She's got a foot in two communities. Poles and Maoris. I'm not too sure how that blood mixes."

"You better hope it's good because that's your ancestry."

"I'm Maori. But my Mum's actually also Polish. Dad married the daughter of a Polish family who came from the same area as Gran."

"I remember stirring up your Poppa because his Mum was half Scottish. I told him to spend a quarter of his time researching the Scottish bit. He just called me a cheeky bastard."

"That sounds like Poppa

"Think of it Wiri. You're actually only 3/16 Maori, even 1/16 Scottish. That makes you 75% Polish. Isn't it a bit insulting to not know your Mother tongue."

"But I do. Poppa made sure we all spoke Maori."

"As I understand it, the mother tongue is the language you learn on the lap of your mother, the language your Mum speaks. A bit insulting to your Gran and Mum to ignore your major blood line isn't it?"

"Poppa always said you were direct. I hadn't thought of it like that."

Bill raised his eyebrows. "I'm presuming you don't speak Polish."

Wiri seemed embarrassed as he nodded his head.

"I suppose I should. I've been staying with her. I think that's why she gave the box to me. She kept Poppa's papers with all the ancient tribe and family history. I've been trying to put it into a chronological sequence, a bit easier with computers. Poppa's notes were all in longhand because he hated computers. Then I want to put it out in a book; not for my family, maybe the next generation might want to know. I'm hoping to get a grant from Maori Affairs to let me do it full time. I suppose Poppa was really a research scientist but didn't know it."

"Did you know your Poppa wrote to me a couple of weeks before he died? It was all in longhand. He knew he didn't have much longer to live. But he expected your Dad would be coming to see me a few weeks after he wrote his letter, and to deliver this box."

"I didn't know."

"When we were young, fit and adventurous, he wanted to take me into the bush to a secret river area where two streams met. He reckoned there was lots of gold there, just waiting to be panned. Marriage and kids buggered up any chance I had of going bush with him. Then he got married soon after I did. Even up to the last time we spoke, before I went overseas, he still wanted me to go bush with him and look for it."

"Gran told me he often used to disappear for weeks at a time. She presumed he was looking for old burial grounds and ancient sites."

"He was probably doing that as well."

"He brought back quite a few artifacts. Did he find any gold though?"

Bill looked at the lightly tanned young man.

"If he had found any, wouldn't he have told your Dad? Or your Grandma?"

"I don't know. She just stored the artifacts."

"Yep. He told me lots of things in that last letter, some of which he made me promise to keep secret. I don't think your Gran does know what's in here. Shall we open it?"

The young man leaned forward in excited anticipation, and watched as Bill opened the knot quite easily and slipped away the aged flax twine around the box. He took his time pushing the flax deep into his jacket pocket. With the box clear of any obstructions, he again ran his fingers over it as if he was feeling it for the first time.

"Beautiful kauri. Such wonderful hardwood. Matiu told me it was carved by his great-great grandfather in the 1840's to contain a special valuable treasure. He said the box and its genuine contents should always be kept together except in times of war, important tribal meetings; or removed and hidden when the contents were in peril, and then only given to or removed by an acceptably appointed chief or person."

Wiri had a surprised expression.

"Poppa was certainly a well respected elder with much mana."

Bill slowly removed the lid. Wiri leaned closer. The item inside was covered with tightly packed aged and crinkled satin. It seemed that more crinkled satin was underneath it. Slowly removing the top layer, Bill heard Wiri gasp involuntarily when he saw the contents.

They looked at a thick 35 centimetre long rough pitted stone with many cracked lines. Bill passed the open box to Wiri who immediately pulled out the stone, quickly examining it; then putting it aside, he removed the remaining crinkled satin to confirm there was nothing underneath.

"This can't be right," he said giving the box and satin back to Bill. He picked up the stone to examine it again. "This looks like a common river stone. Nothing significant." He stood up, looked at Bill, and handed the stone back.

Bill's expression was neutral. He waved the stone in his hands a few times. "It's no river stone, it's rough, and it's very heavy. He slipped the long heavy stone back into the box.

"Oh Hell, I'm sorry. Maybe Poppa was playing a trick on you."

"I don't think so," replied Bill. "Maybe the box's original contents had been removed for safe-keeping and the stone put in its place."

Wiri put his hand to his forehead and rubbed it with his fingers. "God knows what Gran will think when I tell her. I think I'd better go."

"I know I've now got a beautiful kauri box which I didn't have at the start of the day," said Bill. "And a stone, which I'm sure has some history inside it."

"I'm so sorry. I just wished there was something I could do."

"You can wheel me back to the office."

"Sure. Oh my God, what's Gran gonna say?"

Bill sat in silence as Wiri pushed the wheelchair toward the covered deck where the nurses were still watching over their aged patients. Bill had covered the box with the top part of the blanket. Once back on the deck Bill took control, and with a quick spin of one wheel had turned the chair to face Wiri.

"Give your Gran my very best wishes. No, give her my love. Tell her I will respect Matiu's memory and his wishes."

Wiri was apparently still dumb-struck. He again put out his hand, and the old man again responded with a firm handshake.

"It really was good meeting a grandchild of my dear friend. And thanks for this magnificent box."

Wiri nodded a bemused response, turned on his heels and departed.

"Nice to have a visitor?" asked one of the nurses.

"Very different, very interesting, very mysterious, and very late," Bill replied

The nurses looked at each other.

Bill wheeled off toward the office and smiled at the on-duty receptionist.

"Hi Molly. May I get into my private security box?"

"Sure Bill." She slid a register of access book in front of him. He quickly signed. With that she swung back the wide flap by the counter allowing wheel-chair entry into a private area. One side of the wall was covered with a number of large pigeon holes of varying sizes, each with solid steel lock-up doors for guests to keep valuables and private papers.

Bill pulled the long string out from around his neck. He quickly inserted the key into the lock of his conveniently-heighted box. He pushed back the envelopes on the top and extracted an oversized bubble-padded bag at the bottom of the pile. After relocking the box he slipped the envelope under the blanket and with a wave wheeled back past Molly.

"Thanks," he called out and made his way slowly to his private room. He locked the door behind him, though nurses with the proper emergency key could still come in. Filling up and switching on the whistling electric jug as he passed, he wheeled over to the bed. He put the stone-filled box gently on the bed. Then he examined the huge padded envelope on which he had covered the details of the original addressee with a couple of white stick on labels.

From within that, he pulled out a smaller envelope which contained a neatly folded topographical map and letter. He began to re-read the hand-written letter. Though it had been almost 15 years since he had last looked at it, the comments and details were recalled as easily as if he had read it yesterday.

Bill re-read Matiu's indictment of the financial greed of his family, their lack of respect for their ancestors, and their hands-out attitude believing their rights were God-given and they did not have to work for their share. "I know you will understand," Matiu wrote on, "because as we spoke the other night, I sensed your frustration with your own family and lack of respect or care for anyone else but themselves. Therefore any mantle that is to be handed down, I give to you even though you're a white skin pakeha."

"In this generation, while it outwardly seems there has been a rebirth in Maoridom, too many of our real traditional Maori values, attitudes and beliefs have vanished because they have no cash value. The human remains that the new elders keep claiming back with financial compensation from overseas museums is tenuous. They just get a free overseas trip and a big sorry payout. My research shows that most of the heads and stuff they sold to ship captains were from tribal slaves and enemies they'd eaten. They were unrelated and no kin with their own tribe. To bury the remains of slaves with their own warriors demeans the power of the warriors."

"I once said to you that our friendship would always be cemented in stone. Check it out like our old crosswords. So remember, if you just get stoned on glue, just boil it up and try and to take the top off it for the nicest feelings. You will know the right thing to do. The other envelope gives a lot of whakapapa, documentation, details of the history of the treasure, the list of the chiefs and the years it was in their possession as far back as I could trace or closely estimate as far back as 1760. Some historians may be able to trace it further back."

"Its value is inestimable, though with its history, its worth is probably into the 100's of thousands of dollars to a collector or a museum. You will know I have died after you receive the kauri box. Please replace the item I have posted to you into the box that it was originally carved for when you receive it, and cherish both the proper contents and enjoy the substitute stone while you live."

"To others, the appearance of a rough but common looking stone in its place is to make my wife believe that someone in my unworthy family may have taken the original genuine contents. They would place a higher value on greenstone than a rough rock, and they would probably just throw a seemingly valueless rock away and keep the box. She will stop judging them through her rose-tinted glasses and see them for what they really are; though I might have taken devious means to get there. Please, respect my wishes and forever keep this secret, together with the map details, between us, never to be revealed. Remember, all of the stone, inside and out, is yours. Always your brown brother, Matiu."

Bill sighed as he put the letter back in the smaller envelope, but instead of putting it back in the large envelope he placed it in his bedside drawer. He grinned at Matiu's clues about the stone which anyone else would ignore as a crazy raving. Perhaps they would be surprised that their Father had done such things as glue-sniffing. Next he opened up the topographical map and re-examined it. Just off-centre was a small circled area where two streams converged. No obvious location was given, yet he knew the area could be easily identified from the Survey Plan numbers at the base. He tore off the area identification and then tore that piece into many smaller pieces. Refolding the large section, he reopened the drawer and dropped that beside the other letter. Both he would destroy tomorrow. He left the second large envelope inside the padded bag knowing its thick reams of paper contained the history about the mere. He had already read them.

The jug whistled its boiling status. Picking up the stone, he wheeled to his small cupboard and removed the largest pot he had. After putting additional hot water in the pot, he placed it on the small stove, then, poured in the boiling water and turned on the element. He removed the long heavy stone from his jacket pocket, and slipped it carefully into the water. He returned to the items on the bed and re-examined them until the water in the pot started to boil.

He picked up the bubble-padded envelope and delicately extracted a 40 centimetre long greenstone mere. He held it reverently at the comfortable hand grip. Its edges were ragged as would be expected for such a weapon perhaps used in dozens of battles, yet still sharp enough to easily chop into wood.

His hands now held it at the sides as though in prayer. He felt the greenstone warm to his touch. Rubbing finger-tips over its broad sides, he detected the many scratches. Then, again felt the power it seemed to generate. Placing it flat against his heart, the warmth passed through his clothing. The only word he felt could describe it was magnificent.

The phone ringing by his bed startled him.

"Hello Bill, kitchen here. Are you going to join us for dinner?"

Bill looked at the clock. The time had flown by in his daydreams. "Sorry, I'd lost track of time. Can you bring something over? Anything'll do."

"Sure. Be there in 15-20 minutes."

"Thanks," replied Bill. He slipped the greenstone mere back into the large padded bag. He would re-wrap it in the silk and replace it into its true home in the long kauri box tomorrow, then everything into the large padded bag obviously chosen to fit the box, and re-seal it with the broad Sellotape. After breakfast tomorrow, he would put it all back in his lock-up box. Tonight the mere would stay under his pillow just as he thought many of the chiefs might have done over the centuries, but under much harder pillows. Perhaps some of its power and strength might flow into him.

He turned his attention back to the now bubbling pot containing the stone. Moving the pot to his small sink, he extracted the heavy stone from the hot water with food tongs. The top part of the stone had shifted slightly. Picking up a knife and using a tea towel he angled the stone so the knife could fit into the small gap which had appeared. As he slowly prized the two sides apart he could see the strong glue already re-drying on his knife. He gave the knife a forceful push with a twist and the top part of the stone fell back into the sink.

Bill sat back and nodded his head in amazement. The bottom part of the stone had been carefully hollowed out and six minted gold bars, each about five centimeters long, sat comfortably in the hollow. He turned the base stone over allowing the small ingots to fall onto the bench. He gently picked up each in turn, examining them.

"You're heavy little buggers aren't you? So Matiu, you found your gold."

When the two parts of the stone had cooled enough for him to place the bars back into the base, he put the capstone back on the top and wondered what he would do with this bonus. Back to his bed again, he slipped the second ugly but valuable rough stone under his pillow.

He pulled a large white padded envelope from the drawer to contain the stone. He would Sellotape the stone's top back on so its contents would be easily found.

He just hoped he would not die in his sleep tonight. Some less than honest person might find the items under the pillow.

He looked at the new details he had addressed on the big padded envelope which would contain the kauri box and the precious mere. It now read "Deliver to The New Zealand Museum Society." On the envelope in which he would place the stone and its gold he wrote "Deliver to the New Zealand Cancer Society as a gift after my death."

# **********

# PRINCE OF THE PINT CLUB

His name was Mr. Anthony Prince; never Tony Prince; or any other derivation of Anthony.

Until he felt the time was right, the correct way to address him was Mr Prince. Anyone overlooking the required formalities was immediately corrected to the proper form, irrespective of age or even the managerial seniority of the person addressing him.

He always reciprocated with formality; even those many years his junior, addressing them with the prefix of 'young Mr.'

His rod-straight back suggesting military training in his youth, he stood almost six feet. For someone in their early fifties, Mr Prince had a good physique. His head was topped with perfectly combed full natural brown hair, unruffled even after an eight hour working day. The barely noticeable symptoms of thinning only confirmed its naturalness.

His tie was always perfectly centred down the shirt-front and between the lapels of his jacket, with never a mark on any. Trousers, always cut to the correct length, freshly pressed with a prominent crease and no trace of a wrinkle mark anywhere.

He looked younger than his years suggested; and handsome without being a rugged sporting type. A broad forehead accented his light brown eyes beneath thick eyebrows. The high cheekbones tapered perfectly to a strong jaw. His nose was straight and correctly proportioned. Looks that made people turn and try and recall what movie they had seen that face in.

To the company directors he was exceptionally polite and deferential. Amongst his peers he was debonair certainly, but with a hint of arrogance. To the factory staff his air of aloofness was apparent in all his mannerisms.

Soon after my consulting contract began with his employer; Mr Prince discovered we lived in the same neighbourhood. Rather than waste fuel, and when it was convenient, we shared a car. It gave time to talk about my contract with his employer, saving time at work. In the car I was to call him Anthony, but had to revert to Mr Prince both at work and at the private club, which he had invited me to join a few weeks after my contract began.

On car-sharing days, we would depart an hour earlier and go to a coffee bar for a light breakfast. Mine followed by a cappuccino, his by a 'short black'. His regular habit dictated that we always visited the same coffee bar, and he always chose the same breakfast.

He was always greeted warmly and formally by the coffee bar employees.

"The same as usual Mr Prince?"

"Yes please."

My seeming disorganisation examining the menu board while the waiter stood around, then ordering different meals most mornings unsettled Mr Prince. I amused myself asking his opinion on which one I should try.

As my time in his presence grew, there were inferences from him of many spicy romances he had been involved in, without giving out details. Similarly vague revelations were made at the club, generally in response to someone else's tale or adventure if that happened to be the subject under discussion, as it frequently was, by a group at the club.

"Can't say too much, it could get me into trouble," was his reply."

The reason he would not elaborate was always assumed to be that his wife might get to hear it.

One of the few things that Mr. Anthony Prince was not aware was that my contract to redesign the accounting and audit system included payroll and the associated records. I therefore knew he was not, and never had been married, and wondered how he might get into trouble. I kept that information to myself.

Our employer was a multi-national company. He was a long-term permanent employee of many years. My contract was expected to take less than ten months. He advised he too could have been an independent consultant, but preferred long term company opportunities. He confidentially advised me he would be appointed a director; then ultimately managing director. Again, from payroll records, I noticed most existing directors were younger, and been with the company less time.

Within the firm of some 300 local employees, only a few were not on the factory floor. We both worked on administration.

When he invited me to join his invitation only 'Pint Club', I discovered it was in fact a club within a club. He told me it was a distinct privilege to be invited to 'the club'. Some might be invited two or three times; after that, the existing members voted secretly whether to allow the invitee to become a member.

After canvassing members' opinions, when a vote was to take place, members would be discreetly advised when entering, that someone was being polled as a prospective member that night. Members present voted by writing their initials and membership number on a five dollar note and adding a tick or a cross. The notes were deposited in a sealed jar kept hidden under the bar by a trusted barman. The barman was unofficially a full member. The presence of one cross and the attendee was not invited to join; effectively black-balled.

I was advised that few people were successfully invited as members, to partake of, and enjoy the benefits. The inference, without direct statement, was that he had to pull a few strings to get me invited without my having served some sort of long apprenticeship of waiting to get into this inner circle.

Apparently there were no hard and fast rules considering prospects. Existing members applied their own criteria. It seemed if the personality of the prospective member fitted the group then they received a tick on the voting notes.

If the prospect was accepted, their membership was confirmed with the presentation of an ornately designed pint jug or 'pot' with a spring-loaded lid opened by a trigger mechanism.

Some obscure coat of arms showed on one side and the members initials were clearly inscribed on the other. Under the initials were inscribed a number which signified the order in which club membership was given. I had become the 97th member admitted. Though called it a 'pot', it was made of glass. I called it a pint jug.

Mr Prince was number 27, though constant use and washing meant his number was fading rapidly. This presumably would be restamped or replaced.

Members' jugs were kept in a highly visible glass cupboard above the bar with the initials and numbers in numerical order facing toward the patrons. It was obvious which members were present by the absence of their pot from the display cabinet. 'Non-members' were not told of the voting, or aware a vote was being taken, until awarded membership.

The proceeds of the vote were used to pay for any new member's engraved pint jug, then accumulated and deducted from the food bill of the six-monthly dinner held for members and their wives, if they chose to bring them. Mr Prince, as the cuisine expert, would select the menu choices.

Members' nights were Tuesday and Thursday each week including the Christmas and New Year breaks. I discovered that Tuesday was chosen over Monday because too many Mondays are lost because of the 'Mondayising' of public holidays. Attendance was always optional. Thursday rather than Friday was chosen because of Easter's Good Friday, and also not upset members' private weekend travel plans.

The centrally located hotel was selected because it was nearest where most of the club's originals worked. The local 'pub', knowing what was good for business, roped off part of the private bar for the exclusive use of the pint club on Tuesdays and Thursdays. No-one ever enlightened me how the club got started. That was probably because I never asked.

Drinking beer pints was not mandatory. But even the spirits drinkers took their drinks from the pint jugs.

I realised drinking out of covered 'pots' was a good idea. During any non-drinking period, the pot lid would automatically spring closed, therefore it was very hygienic.

Luckily, after attending three meetings, I was invited back for a fourth and was, with due ceremony, awarded my own jug proudly displaying my own initials.

I did not attend every night. I was not a regular drinker. Though Mr. Anthony Prince rarely, if ever, missed a meeting.

I had seen about 80 different faces with members pots over the time. Generally fewer than 20 were present on a Tuesday with up to around 60 on a Thursday. The age of the members varied widely from some in their early 20's to a few in their late 50's. Most were between 30's, and early 40's.

The members' professions were wide, though most were white collar workers in finance, computers, doctors, lawyers, engineers, clerks, and some civil servants. The blue collar workers included couriers, a taxi driver, garbage collector, fork-lift driver, and engineers.

Canvassing for work was discouraged but did not prevent ork being discussed, and the diverse occupations meant the topics were broad.

As the night progressed, the numbers grew; and they would break up into smaller groups with common interests.

To me, Mr Anthony Prince did not appear to be what he purported to be. There seemed a veneer beyond which nothing concrete could be seen. There was never anything that I could put my finger on, more a sixth sense.

I watched him intently when he listened to conversations of others within the groups as someone spoke of an experience, local or overseas, or an achievement of some note, sporting, work or academic.

Mr Anthony Prince would always nod agreeably, seemingly inferring he had seen it all before; occasionally making a comment like, "reminds of something that happened in my early 20's" or "something similar happened to me in my 30's."

The audience would pause and wait for explanation or a story. Mr Prince would strike a pose, perhaps an exaggerated lean on the bar, or a throat clearing cough. But a story was never forthcoming. It was always closed off by a simple. "Well, my experience, no that's all too long ago now, it's all old hat, I don't want to steal your limelight," accompanying it with a big grin.

Those returning from overseas trips would chat freely about their experiences or deeds. Mr Prince's response would be paternal and knowingly agreeable. His comment carefully worded like, "things have changed a lot since I was in my 20's."

Again, especially the younger members would wait, hanging off Mr. Prince's hoped for next words. They were always along the lines of "too much water under the bridge and too many changes since then."

It was quite obvious that the members held him in great respect, the younger members almost awe-struck in his presence and his seeming modesty about his broad range of achievements and experiences.

One of the members was selected as a state representative in rugby. The group, without exception, was in full praise of the achiever. Anthony showed his joy to the youngster as a proud father would do.

"You know, in my heyday, players were not selected at such a young age," he said. "Now they're all covered by insurance which provides the family with support if they're injured. Unfortunately I quit rather than risk my family responsibilities, just as reps, probably higher honours looked probable. Well, gossipers and newspapers touted such stuff anyway, but who'd believe them?" he would add with a saddened look.

The sympathies for his foiled opportunities gave greater admiration from the audience to this unfortunate and very modest Mr. Prince.

The only time I ever heard Anthony angrily disagree with any other club member was when the subject of the royal family was raised. He jumped in early in the discussion and berated the whole ancestry system of those on the throne, and the absence of any recognition for those perhaps entitled to be considered part of the wider royal family. He castigated the misuse of royal privilege for presumably taking sexual advantage of staff or other subjects. Then the abandonment of the resulting offspring he considered as an unconscionable act of betrayal to the royal bloodline.

His outspoken strong opinion, because it was so rare, stopped any contra viewpoints emerging, but questions of 'why?' would be thought about, but never asked aloud.

Occasionally he would talk about the untrustworthiness of the past corrupt generations and how family fortunes, reputations and wealth were frequently lost.

At subsequent meetings, among smaller groups, where Mr Prince was not part of the group, some quietly discussed theories pondering the extent of his royal blood and how his side of the royal family must have been disowned and lost their fortune.

To me, as a financial analyst and auditor, only interested in facts, I could see no evidence of the royal connection or his family disinherited wealth in any of the words he had spoken. I even had the temerity to once say, "Just because it has webbed feet doesn't make it a duck. Seagulls have webbed feet and they spend a lot of time around refuse tips."

The dark and disapproving looks I received were tantamount to my being blackballed from some conversations.

The end of my contract was rapidly drawing near. I was quite pleased to be finishing up. The firm was pleasant enough to work for, but Mr Prince's continual unsolicited advice on what I should be doing with my life to improve it and become as successful as him was becoming tiring and intrusive. I increasingly made excuses to avoid the car-sharing arrangement. My visits to the Pint Club became rarer, using the excuse of pressure to finish the contract on time necessitating after hours work. I would remain on the company premises until he had gone.

Mr Prince continued his normal Tuesday and Thursday routine.

A week before the end of my contract, Mr. Prince phoned me at home to ask for a ride to work. He had to take his car to a service garage only 15 minutes walk from his home. I was to meet him outside the front gate of his property at the usual time. I offered to collect him from the garage but he insisted otherwise, because of the difficulty finding the service garage.

I duly arrived at the arranged time but Anthony was not outside the gate. I could see a shape moving past the window behind the light drapes and thought that, unlikely as it might have been, he might have been running late or even forgotten about delivering his car.

I decided to go to his front door and knock to make sure all was going to plan.

I was surprised when a wrinkled old lady, well into her eighties, answered the door.

"Is Mr Prince here?"

"No she said," with a very clear and lucid voice. "He's dropping his car off for service."

"Hello," I said, and introduced myself. "That's why I'm here, to give Anthony a lift to work."

"I'm expecting him back any minute now," she said.

"O.K., thanks, I'll wait in the car downstairs."

My mobile phone rang

"Hello," I answered, guessing who it was.

"Anthony here. Look I'm sorry, I'll be delayed another 30-45 minutes until the chief mechanic arrives. You go on to work, I'll catch public transport."

"No," I said, "I know how far away from work that will take you, you'll end up being very late for work. I've got a newspaper, so it gives me the chance of a read and doing the crossword and sudoku until you arrive."

"If you're sure?"

"Of course."

The dear old lady looked at me.

"That was Anthony," I said. "He's been delayed about 30 minutes. I'll just wait outside."

"No. Come in and have a quick cup of tea with me. I never get to meet any of Tony's friends. He keeps me hidden away," she laughed. Behind the laugh and look she gave, it displayed a sense of truthfulness behind the words.

Her frail wrinkled hand took my arm and she gently pulled me inside pointing to a well used easy chair.

"The jug's just boiled, so I've just made a fresh pot."

"That'll be fine,"

"How do you have your tea?"

"Milk and no sugar thanks." She had obviously never offered alternative beverages to people.

As I sat it felt like I was entering the outer room of a funeral parlour. All furnishings were dark and grey in colour. Little light came through the heavy blinds. A low wattage globe on the ceiling tried its best to cast shadows around the room.

I realised all the furnishings were covered with heavy blankets; and the table and four chairs around it looked old, without having any antique value.

Very quickly she was back in the room with a garishly painted wooden tray on which the teapot, two cups and saucers, a glass milk-jug, and sugar-bowl sat.

"I'll be Mother," she giggled, "seeing that is what I am."

She poured the tea with a steady hand and gave me my cup; then taking her own cup sat down opposite me.

I said. "You must be quite proud of Anthony and all he's achieved."

"You're being very sweet," she replied. "Tony's the middle boy of the family. He has an older brother and sister and a younger brother and sister."

"Oh," I said. "Very much a good sized traditional family of that generation."

"Yes, I suppose it was. I had little pet nicknames for all of my children. He was my little Prince Anthony, the son of the evil prince who was the banished reigning monarch of a faraway land. But he would never become king unless he ate all his greens and married a princess."

"We came off the farm when all the children had finished school," she went on. "The other four all went to university and are now spread all around the place including one in London and one in New York. All very successful."

"Was Anthony concentrating on his sport then?"

"Sport," she laughed. "He couldn't catch a ball if you put it in his pocket. He was never interested. The others were very successful in sport to varying degrees. All to a pretty good standard mind you."

"Does he visit his brothers or sisters overseas?"

"No. I'm always telling him to get a passport so he can. But he's never ever had one. I think he's scared of flying. Even if a passport was needed to travel inter-state it would never have been used. I don't even think he's been out on the open highway."

"He's considered a very eligible bachelor at work."

"That's true. He is. He's had a few lovely girlfriends, but it never lasts for long. No woman can tolerate him once they get to know him. I keep on telling him not to be such a pedantic know-all. He's an obsessive regarding tidiness. I just wished he'd leave home, married or not. But he can barely cook toast in a pop-up toaster without burning it It's such a shame because he loves children but he's never married and had children of his own. He loves his nieces and nephews. Around them he's like a patient old grandfather. I tell him he behaves like an old woman at times," she laughed again. "I tell him I'm meant to be the only old woman around here. He gets angry with me when I tell him that."

"Where's his father?"

"He died in prison about 20 years ago. It wasn't anything evil that he'd done. He'd invested the farm sale proceeds into a scheme which he didn't know much about. There were some crooks running the scheme and so Tony's father got charged as one of the financial backers. I think his father died of a broken heart at being charged under an obscure one of her 'Her Majesty's' laws of ancient time as being an accessory both before and after the fact. I know Tony was very upset and tried to distance himself from everyone. So, he's always lived at home with me since he was born."

I finished my tea just as my mobile phone rang again.

"Hello."

"Anthony here. We're on our way. I'll be there in about five minutes. Sorry about the delay."

"See you soon."

I pressed the off button on the phone and stood to leave, placing my tea cup and saucer on the wooden tray.

"Thank you very much Mrs Prince, it was a lovely cup of tea and good company."

"Oh," she said. "I'm not Mrs Prince. That's the name Tony changed to. I'm Mrs Blacksmith. Our name really shows what humble origins we come from doesn't it."

As I left I turned to her and said. "Really Mrs Blacksmith you should not admit strangers to your house so easily in this day and age."

"Oh my gosh no. It's funny you should say that because Tony was only warning me once again about that last night and again this morning. What have I done?" she said with quite a concerned look on her face.

"Let's keep my little visit and what we talked about a secret then," I nodded and winked at her.

"Oh yes," she said. "Would you mind? I would appreciate it, otherwise he'll nag on and on like the old woman he is." She laughed again.

"Our secret," I repeated, and turned and left. I heard the safety chain go on the door behind me, together with the sound of a couple of sliding bolts.

I had only been back in the car for about a minute when Anthony arrived. He moved quickly from the other car to mine and we set about heading to work.

"Maybe there's not enough time for breakfast and coffee this morning if that's alright for you."

"Fine, suits me," I replied.

"They'll deliver the car to my work this evening. You go on to the club, I'll meet you there. I've got to take the mechanic to the nearest train station. Then it's only a couple of minutes to the printers where I've got to drop off the annual report to be printed."

It was Thursday, and I had nearly finished my report. "Sounds good to me."

"It strikes me that mechanics are stupid these days," he said. "You know they weren't even knowledgeable about what needed doing, or how to go about doing it."

I listened during the rest of the journey about the shortcomings of modern mechanics, and thought of the words of his Mother.

During that day I thankfully only caught brief glimpses of Anthony. I do not know whether he left work before or after me, but he was not among those at the club when I arrived.

I was given my jug '97', and had a pint of draught pulled. It seemed I had been forgiven my ducks and seagulls comment of a few weeks before, and the slowly expanding group was in discussion about the duplicity of the government in its anti-pollution laws, while still allowing golf courses to pour massive amounts of fertiliser onto fairways and greens, with the subsequent run-offs polluting rivers and promoting algae growth.

The meeting was in peak session as usual around 8:15 p.m. for a Thursday night, when Anthony arrived. For the first time, and to the surprise of everyone, he looked dishevelled, and untidy. Tie askew, shirt creased, and mascara markings on his jacket

He entered with a grin as broad as I had ever seen. Even when it faded, it never faded to less than a smirk. The barman handed him his number '27', and said "I'll put you on the last round which I've just finished," he said looking at the buyer of that round in the small group Anthony had joined. The round-buyer nodded his agreement.

"What the hell's happened to you?" The question came from many sources. Others swelled the group numbers in anticipation of a story.

"Well," he said, parting his hands and shrugging his shoulders. "What can I say? I've still got it."

Various questions issued forth from the curious listeners.

"You know," he started, "you youngsters should be able to learn a lesson from the rewards of being a well bred, sophisticated and considerate gentleman."

"Come on, what happened," asked number 81, a member in his early 30's.

"Well, as my friend and colleague here was aware, I had a management task to undertake at the printers after work." He waved an arm in my direction. Some looked at me, even a few with a bit of a black look. The ducks and seagulls had not been forgotten by some.

"When I arrived at the front of the printers, the building looked closed. It was already dark. But there is nowhere to park in the front. I thought I could see lights still on inside, so I parked my car around the back of the building in their work car-park. It must have been a security light I spotted. It weakly shone through frosted windows. Otherwise it was dark and deserted with no other cars in the park. I knocked on the back door without response, then, went around to the front expecting to find a bell for some after-hour's service. Instead there was just a large deep slot in the main doors for after-hours deliveries. So I slipped my envelope containing the report into it."

"When I turned around I noticed a rather attractive young lady, perhaps in her mid-20's, standing by the road, trying to wave down a taxi. I had noticed her out the front when I drove past.

In the dark I hadn't noticed how good looking she was."

"No success with the taxi's?" I asked.

"No," she answered. "It's peak time, when they pass here they've all been taken."

"She was knock em down, set em up gorgeous. I was just wishing I was 20 years younger. But I didn't say that to her. Her top was white, loose fitting cotton; open enough to just give a hint of the cleavage of two good size nicely shaped breasts. The slightly above knee skirt was a flowing loose material which moved gently with the breeze or when she moved. Her legs had a nice shape."

"No luck for you then either," she said.

"No, I'm not looking for a taxi. I had a delivery for the printer, but he seems to be closed. My car's around the back."

"I stayed with her as we watched a few occupied taxis go by. The neighbourhood around there is not exactly the best. It could be dangerous for a lovely lady like you around here.'"

"Thank you for caring."

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Way up north, off the farm. My parents have sent me down to stay with my sister and her husband."

"That's nice."

"No it's not. They hardly gave me any money, and now I've got to waste some on a taxi. My parents, well they're just so strict. I mean, they won't let me do anything. It caused my boyfriend and me to break up over three months ago. They wouldn't even let me go out to visit my girlfriends."

"That's a shame."

"You really think so? You're nice; and good looking too."

Another filled taxi went by.

"Oh," she said, "I'm feeling so frustrated," she said innocently.

"Hey, look. I'm not in a rush to go anywhere. Can I drop you somewhere?"

"Would you? I'd be ever so grateful."

"I'd hate to leave a pretty little thing like you stranded."

"Thank you, I knew you were a gentleman. Where are you parked again?"

"Just around the back of this building."

"With that she spun around, grabbed my hand and we started to walk to the car."

"While we walked she carried on telling me about the farm and her parents."

"You know the only reason my parents said that I was with my boyfriend was because of sex. God it's been over three months and I've been feeling as horny as hell all the way down here on the train."

"Where do you want me to take you from here?"

"Just down this road somewhere, but still a kilometre or two away. I haven't been there for a few years, but I'll remember the place as soon as I see it."

"We entered the darkened car-park and moved toward the car. "Can I give you a thank you kiss now?" she asked.

"Why not?" I answered. She held my cheeks in both her palms and kissed me briefly on the mouth."

"Hmm. Nice. More please," she said, then, she gave me a long kiss.

"God. Does that ever make me horny," she said. She put a hand down and gently felt the rising bulge in my trousers.

"Seems like I'm not the only one feeling horny."

Anthony looked at each of the listeners in turn. "It's been a lot longer time than three months for me," he said with a do not believe me grin on his face.

"I walked her on to the car."

"Nice car" she said.

"I walked around to her side and opened the door for her."

"Gee you are a real gentleman. My boyfriend never ever did that. You're a really nice kisser too, sets my bits fluttering."

"I got into my side of the car and was about to start it when she said, 'just one more kiss please.'"

"Well a gentleman doesn't deny a ladies request, so I gave her another kiss."

"She put her hand on my now screaming point, so to speak, and grasped my hand and put it between her legs. She was definitely in the mood."

"Can you lay your seat back?" she said. I did so without further asking and she lowered hers. Only the accursed brake and gear-stick levers between us."

"Afterwards I drove her down the street. Thankfully it was only a few hundred metres before she recognised her sister's house."

Mr Prince looked around the now much larger assembled listeners at the club which had now swollen to take in most of the members. "So that gentlemen is why I'm late."

Choruses of "lucky bastard," and "wish that'd happen to me", went around the group.

I had long before emptied number 97 and put my jug on the bar.

Mr Prince announced. "I guess this round's on me then," he said to the gathered group. He looked around and realised from the group size that it was going to be an expensive round. "But I'm not paying for another drink for the rest of the month."

The barman looked at him. Anthony made a circle with his forefinger and pointed at his own chest. The barman nodded at his confirmation of the payment for the round.

The large group then broke into smaller groups. Most recanting about Mr Prince's luck; and loud laughter would occasionally erupt.

It took quite a few minutes for all the attendees to refill their pots before I saw the barman catch Anthony's eye.

On returning from the bar, Mr Anthony Prince walked toward me and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Sure. What can I do for you?"

He led me out of the private bar to the small greeting booths near the reception area.

"You're all mysterious Anthony."

"I must ask that you please keep what I'm about to say top secret. For ever. And only between us."

I nodded.

"Terrible thing to ask, but have you got a couple of hundred you can loan me?"

"Sure, did you leave your wallet at home?"

"No, my wallet's firmly in my pocket. But I just went to pay the bar and I just noticed the bitch must've emptied it of all my cash and credit cards."

# **********

# THE CLIPBOARD

Our boys' high school secondary college had a very strict discipline code. Toss in a correctly worn uniform regime of socks up, shirt tucked in, no cap on indoors, and cap on outside the school gate. No running inside school buildings, though obviously the gymnasium and the indoor basketball courts were exemptions. We stood back from the door to allow a teacher or school visitor through first, and stood up when an adult entered the room. Really, it was only basic courtesy and manners, with a few safety and tidiness issues thrown in.

There were always teachers on watchful supervisory duties during morning tea and lunch breaks. At these times, dozens of different boy-games were played, some on bitumen, some on the grass fields. Whatever was being played, everyone tried to avoid where the staff member we called Squinty, was patrolling, complete with his red clipboard under his right arm. Sometimes he sat in shaded areas, trying to be inconspicuous while watching the boys' activities, and still writing in his clipboard, which he would immediately slam shut if anyone approached.

The school not only had academic assessments, but assessment of various social issues and skills. It included leadership, co-operation, assistance, manners, fair play, playground conduct, and interaction, among a host of others. For seniors, their attitude toward juniors was carefully watched; for juniors, their respect toward senior pupils was seemingly noted.

During his two year tenure at the high school, nobody could recall Squinty ever taking a class lesson. He had, on occasions, overseen a class for an absent teacher away sick, but nobody could remember his ever giving formal lectures. He would merely set reading tasks for the students to undertake in silence. In silence it was done, as Squinty's red clipboard always seemed at the ready to deliver the equivalent of a death blow of social ostracism, to an erring student.

Even stranger, was his attendance as a spectator at all the school 1st XV rugby, and basketball games; still carrying his clipboard.

Break-time supervision was meant to be shared equally among the staff, a task that most teachers seemed to want to shun; but not Squinty. Every day, he and his red clipboard was patrolling and watching. It was rumoured that he had the ear of the headmaster, and was the most influential in the attitude assessment section of the school reports.

"You boy!" His boney finger on his right hand would point at some target and shake like a snake with only half a tongue.

"What's your name?"

On receiving a reply, Squinty would push his bottle thick glasses higher up the bridge of his big hooked nose, then wrinkle his nose so the glasses rode higher and glare through them as though inspecting a glass-slide under a microscope. Then, with a disdainful flick of the wrist, he would wave the named boy away.

Tall, very skinny and bent over, Squinty reminded me of a large vulture watching for the last gasps of life from a dying prey. The image was enhanced by his wearing of an aged black university graduation cloak over equally aged always dark gray suits. When he walked, the flowing cape emphasized the hovering vulture image. Faint traces of scars on his face like burn marks, together with the seemingly accentuated limp in his right leg also suggested somewhat of a Frankenstein image.

When sitting in shade he was frequently unseen by an unwary prey. Suddenly the voice would boom out.

"You boy!"

His long shaking spindly finger and fist just making it out into the sunlight like the sudden appearance of the head of a moray eel from its small cave. His victim, after overcoming the shock of such a strike from the darkness, and having seemingly been caught for some trivial infraction, was probably muttering obscenities under his breath far worse than the indiscretion.

After the pupil's dismissal Squinty would lift the top-hinged cover of his clipboard, and hold the top up at a right angle; it prevented anyone from seeing his notes. Sometimes he would not write anything until long and serious thought had been done; while using the split between thumb and forefinger of his left hand to rub his chin; or the little finger of the same hand to clear some imaginary block in his left ear. Everything was deeply considered; there was no rush to judgement.

It was nearing the end of the school year. Many final exams had been set and sat by the hundreds of pupils, but final pupil reports were yet to be completed. The school and all its activities and lectures were winding down.

Some of the boys were partaking of their rebellious activity of sneaking a cigarette behind the bike-sheds. This was an area where some of the wealthier senior pupils parked their private cars, and where the caretaker's large and old wooden lock-up day-shed was located. One of the cars must have been suffering a petrol leak as the aroma of spilt fuel was quite strong on the summer-dry grassed area.

For some strange reason, Squinty had decided to check on this area that he had never previously checked. Maybe it was the smell of petrol?

As Squinty appeared around the corner of the bike sheds, the offending boys panicked. Half smoked cigarettes were tossed in multiple directions as they fled. None wanted to be caught with this highly punishable sin as part of their record. With luck they hoped to get away without being identified.

Embers from one or more of the cigarettes ignited the inflammable grass, erupting with the suddenness of a flame-thrower. Fire quickly surrounded and ignited the caretaker's large old wooden building, engulfing it.

One of the fleeing boys cast a quick eye behind him and later secretly told the others he saw Squinty, cape flying out behind him, rushing shoulder first into the caretaker's door. Seconds later the building collapsed and Squinty was nowhere to be seen.

Minutes later the fire brigade arrived and the flare-up was quickly doused. They were surprised when they found the body inside because the caretaker had been the one who reported the blaze and phoned them. Though a pedestrian passer-by had said he had seen someone with a cape rushing into the blaze. A quick roll call of all the boys and staff revealed that the only one missing was Squinty. The area was quickly taped off for police, forensics and fire investigators to do their work. It was very quickly confirmed the body was that of Squinty.

Despite the early findings that the fire was the probable accidental result of the combination of cigarettes and spilt petrol, investigators were unable to identify who might have triggered such an event. The guilty parties kept silent as expulsion from the school was a certainty, and criminal prosecution a possibility.

# \----------

"What can one say about our dear departed colleague, and old boy of this school?" the headmaster began addressing the huge congregation in the chapel for the funeral service, four days after the fire.

We senior boys attending all looked down, attempting to disguise the suppressed grins on our faces and thinking, 'yes, what indeed, can he say about Squinty?'

"A man we were all fortunate enough to have worked with, even if so brief a time over these two years," he went on.

A few of the boys made noises as they forcefully suppressed their giggles.

"This man was so dedicated he attended all the school's basketball and 1st XV rugby games to give his support, even though he could barely make out colours beyond 15 metres. In his school days he was an amazingly accurate goal-shooting basketball centre, and despite his thin physique, an outstanding 1st XV, hard, rugged, ball-winning lock."

Some boys looked at each other and rolled there eyes, and one even muttered "Get real."

"A man whose mission with us was almost as secret as the many covert missions he performed behind enemy lines in the earliest times of the Afghanistan conflict during the late 90's."

To a boy, all the pupils suddenly looked up at the headmaster.

"A man whose unflinching bravery and self-sacrifice earned him medals from two countries; Afghanistan and our country."

Suddenly we were all ears.

"Operating alone for weeks at a time, bearded and disguised behind enemy lines, with no access to instant rescue or assistance, he gathered information about people, and locations of enemy positions. Having become fluent in Turkic, the language of the Kirghiz people who lived in an area strongly controlled by the Taliban, and also fluent in Arabic and Pashtun, he was a natural for the missions."

"It was on the last and almost fatal one of these missions that he almost lost his life. After a USAF bombing raid that cruelly went awry and bombed the wrong village, a local school, built of aged dry timber and straw, and filled with children, was hit and burst into flame. Our colleague, showing bravery way beyond that of any of us here could ever muster, never hesitated."

"He crashed through the flimsy door and ushered out those who were conscious and could walk, and carried others who could not. Despite the increasing inferno, he returned time and time again into the flames to carry out many more unconscious and injured children."

"Finally, with his clothing, hair and beard ablaze, he collapsed outside the still burning building. The locals put out the body engulfing flames and did the best they could to comfort him. Luckily, a nearby patrol of British forces, realized the USAF had made a mistake and rushed to the village where they found our colleague in a very bad and seemingly life-ending state. An emergency Chinook helicopter evacuation, immediate medical attention at the army base, and an emergency flight to a German military hospital saved his life. He had though, suffered horrific injuries. As well as the near destruction of the corneas of his eyes, and severe facial burns, the worst damage was to the lower half of his body."

Several of the senior boys were now in tears.

"During his eight year recovery period he completed his degree in psychology and human behaviour. He honoured us with his presence where we tried to assist him toward his Doctoral studies. We had been requested to keep his study activities secret as he feared knowledge of what he was doing would affect the behavioural activities of the students. Despite his severe sight handicap where he could not see much beyond a few metres in front of his face, he would have to call out to the staff and boys to come close enough to check if he was able to recognize them. Otherwise, he kept much to himself while present at our school; passing his time doing his precious crosswords and suduko puzzles which he kept hidden in the red clipboard that was always with him."

Many were now openly sobbing.

"We can never imagine the fear and dread of fire that he had to overcome, when once again he had to crash down the door of our caretaker's day-room just in case our caretaker was trapped inside. Thankfully the caretaker was not inside."

"Unfortunately, this time, no amount of medical help was able to save our self-sacrificing colleague. We can but hope that the agony from the pain he must have been suffering in the time before he died was brief."

The Headmaster paused in his eulogy and looked toward the curtains behind him. The curtains parted. An officer followed by six soldiers, all in full dress uniform emerged, marching crisply, and stood at attention each side of the coffin. The officer, facing forward, stood at the head of the coffin. He made a swift 180 degree turn to face the coffin; his right arm snapping to his brow in a long held salute. He snapped his arm back to his side, and swiftly returned to face away from the coffin.

The headmaster's eyes slowly scanned the faces of the congregation, seemingly lingering longest on the faces of the senior students.

"I know you will all join with me for one minute's silence as we all think back on how we reacted to him during the time he shared with us."

# **********

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Muir was born in Hamilton, New Zealand. Attended Palmerston North Boys High School and graduated in accounting from Massy University. Spent 25 years in Sydney, Australia and time in Asia.

# Discover other titles by John Muir

-The Siege Of Apuao Grande (1st novel involving TA)

-Just Cause Wrong Target (2nd novel involving TA)

-Singapore Straits Diamond Pirates (to be completed-3rd novel involving TA)

-Short Shorts & Longer Tales

-My Other Shorts & Formal Tales (this book)

-Denim Shorts & Foxy Tales

-Poems, Prose & Penniless Vol. 1

-Poems, Prose & Penniless Vol. 2

-Poems, Prose & Penniless Vol. 3

-An Artist's Freedom (from Short Shorts & Longer Tales)

-A Sunday Market Seller (from My Other Shorts & Formal Tales)

-Modernised, Upsized Fairy Tales For Teens

-Patch (A short story for 8-12 year olds)

-A Soap Slippery Bath Imp (A short story for 8-80 year olds)

-A Baker's 6-Pack Of Plays (7-10 minute plays)

# **********

