 
A Distant Summer's Day and Other Stories

By Stephen Bayliss

Published by Stephen Bayliss at Smashwords

Copyright 2017 Stephen Bayliss

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

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Table of Contents

The Battle of McKenzie Street

A Distant Summer's Day

Monaro Dreaming

The Weekend at Carson's Folly

The Final Episode

Out of Touch

Barry's Big Move

The Daffodils

Miss Blandford's Last Day

The Misfits

The Ballad of Staunch

The Interview

About the Author
The Battle of McKenzie Street

We'd all heard of Animal brown. A hood, a 'yobbo' as our principal used to call them. I'd seen him one day at High School. They came in at lunchtime and tore up the wide quad between E Block and D Block, the big grey Dodge laying black threats on to the concrete while its heavy wheels screamed frustration and boredom at the school, at the town, at the world. Brown bottles waved out the window, spit flew, promises of crude sexual fulfilment made the girls in their short blue skirts blush. Well, some of them, those that didn't wave and respond with even cruder obscenities.

Animal Brown was driving, a maniac's grin almost splitting his face, a fuck you and fuck the world laugh flying out the window along with his greasy long black hair. You couldn't miss him. He had a glass eye. It was always looking in the wrong direction. You know, he was one of those people who made you wonder which eye to look at when you were talking to them. Then they were gone, the horn sounding down the street, calling into the distance to inspire all youth to destructive rebellion, a grey oil smoke cloud hanging in the air behind them like a visible flatulence.

We'd heard that Animal Brown was out to get my brother. I don't know why exactly. He was new in town - he'd only been around since the beginning of summer - and I think he was out to prove himself. We weren't a gang and neither were they in the sense of organisation, but wherever we went they seemed to turn up, as if they could smell a good time a mile away. And whenever we encountered them, Animal Brown would hassle my brother, wind him up, use him to show what a hard man he was.

It was my brother's car I think that really pissed them off. Christ, what a beautiful machine! A 1965 Anglia with metallic blue paint, four big fats on wide wheels, an overhead cam, twin carbs and freeflow exhaust. Man, did it sound sweet. Grouse. And move! Oath! We'd wound her up to a hundred and ten down the Kowhai Straits, blew the door handles off Craig Bennett's old man's Capri. Yeah, I guess it was the car. It was like a blur they just glimpsed out of the corners of their eyes, like a piece of distant sky, something tantalising, just out of reach, a confirmation of all that the world denied them. Anyway, what I mean is, a cool car was like a challenge, you couldn't cruise down McKenzie Street on a Friday night, revving the motor, shouting at girls in front of the fish and chip shop without them hearing about it.

"Hey Mandy! Wanna go to a party?"

"Whereabouts?"

"In my pants! Ha! Ha!"

"Fuckin' grow up will ya."

"Hop in and make me grow up."

The next thing you know there's the grey Dodge behind you, or their mates in the black Desoto, almost wider than the road, like someone's put a war monument on wheels. It's right up our arse with so many arms hanging out the windows you wonder if they're going for a record like that phone box thing you used to see in old American movies. So we're off, the Anglia's pipes rattling the shop windows and the hole-in-the-exhaust Desoto turning angry middle-class eyes on the youth of today burning up another weekend like it was made of nothing more than magnesium powder, a flashing firework that glared for a few seconds into the empty future. Then we're through the S-bends on two wheels, laughing, and the sound of the wind screaming through the open window - "Dare you! Dare you!" We straighten out, we survive, we've lost them. An hour later we're down the reserve, sitting on a picnic table with cold DB beer bottles, guzzling, not drinking, the night so black it's like we're in this vast featureless cavern, its only sound the tearing off of bottle tops with reckless teeth.

Anyway, we weren't a gang. There was me, my brother Grant, David, who was my mate, and Kevin, who was Grant's mate. We hung out together, that was all. We'd all worked on the car with a lot of help from Kevin's older brother who was an apprentice mechanic. There was something about having a car when you were sixteen, well Grant was sixteen. I was fifteen. Something that made you feel you could go wherever you pleased, there were no more barriers. If you'd asked me what defined freedom that's what I would have said - four fat wheels, a metallic paint job and a hot motor. Maybe Animal Brown felt the same way, I don't know, but as I said, I guess it was the car. Maybe it was because it allowed us to cross borders, to invade their territory, or something. Maybe it made them feel, resent, that we had money. We didn't, but I guess we had more than them. It was Animal's mate, Ricky Patterson, who started it all.

We were parked outside the Karaka picture theatre. That was the name of our town, forty-one miles from the city. It used to draw the townies in summer a few years back, parking their Prefects, Zephyrs and Vauxhalls all the way down Marine Drive, sunbathing, swimming and a hot-dog and Coke at the takeaways. Then one day they stopped coming. Don't ask me why. The council dreamt up a slogan - 'Summer's Cracker in Karaka!' Can you believe it? It didn't make any difference. We had our own name for the place - Crapper, or just plain Crap. When God created boredom this was the place He had in mind. Well, that's how we saw it when we were fifteen or sixteen. At least the picture theatre stayed open. The Majestic - not that there was anything particularly regal about it, unless you counted the fact they had the Miss Karaka competition there every summer.

Anyway, it was a Friday night outside the picture theatre, in the car park across the road. We weren't going to the pictures, only spoons actually went to the pictures. The ones whose Mums and Dads dropped them off in the Holden station wagon, too young to get their licence, too young to be out past ten. We were into fronting up to the bottle-store and passing for twenty, or if that failed getting one of the older guys to score us two dozen brown bottles of oblivion, of bravado. And girls. We were into girls, into getting laid. Getting a root, a screw, a bonk, bang, shag - we had so many words for it we could have made our own dictionary.

We thought about it a lot, talked about it even more, but none of us had ever actually done it, at least I hadn't, and I'm pretty sure the others weren't having any more luck than I was.

So there we were, outside the Majestic, watching the girls as they watched us, seeing and being seen, waiting for the big event, waiting for the something we all wished would happen, that never did. We were just sitting in the car cracking jokes and sipping when the Dodge chugged through the car park, its heavy V8 a war drum throbbing. We went quiet and sat tight. They stopped. Through the glare of headlights we could see figures moving, heard raucous laughter, catcalls to patrons across the road. Then I heard it. A tearing all along the side of the car. I saw Ricky Patterson walking away. We leapt out, challenged, the adrenalin beginning to surge. He'd scratched right along the length of the body, a key, or a twenty-cent piece. It was a violation, a threat. They were all standing round the front of the Dodge, waiting to see us move, waiting, itching for the scrap. Grant walked a few steps towards them. He was big Grant, carried a lot of weight, his round face usually had a placid, dreamy look, but his eyes were wide, his fists clenched. He was totally pissed off. He didn't like to fight but he loved that car. He pointed a finger at them, at Ricky.

"Keep your fucking hands off my car cunt!"

"What's the matter Stanton? Yer wankmobile need a new paint job?" Ricky turned to his mates and they all laughed in support.

"You'll need a fucking head transplant if I see you near it again."

"You and whose army wanker? Yer a poofdah Stanton. You and yer mates all take it up the arse."

Grant began to walk towards them, it looked like it was all going to explode, heads were turning, something was happening, something real. I ran forward and began pulling Grant back to the car, his nostrils were flaring and his eyes shone violence back at the Dodge mob. I saw Animal Brown behind the wheel, jerking his hand up and down, giving Grant the wanker sign, his thin face and rough teeth wracked into a grin.

"It's not worth it," I said. "There's six of them. Don't fucking worry about it."

"Yeah, sure. It's only my fucking car. Who fucking cares?"

"Fuck. Don't take it out on me. I'm pissed off too. We all are. But fuck them, they're not worth it."

At that moment the black Desoto hove into view, ploughing into the road as it took the corner like a dark destroyer leaning into a wave, the air filled with its sound, the motor, the tyres, the shouts of its pagan crew, the spraying foam of excited beer and arms and legs out the window. The horn gave a mournful flourish and they were burning down McKenzie Street, their one red tail light leering back at us like a bloodied eye. The grey Dodge filled with bodies and spitting gravel followed them. I could feel the eyes upon us, the question bouncing round the small town night. Was that it? Was that the something? Or were we all still waiting?

There were no parties to crash that night, no lounge rooms lit with pale red and green light bulbs, no girls all dancing together in the centre of the room to the distorted sounds of Sweet pumping out of an overloaded Pioneer stereo while emptying bottles and cans began to stand sentinel on tables, mantelpieces and beside chairs, like small brown, silver and gold statues in a smoke wreathed temple. So it was down to the reserve again, clutched in our duffle coats against that all-seeing impenetrable dark, the sound of the river carrying answers down to the sea, answers we couldn't hear to questions we couldn't articulate. We had our beers, we had each other, if we were nowhere it was only because it seemed there was nowhere to go. We did have one question that needed an answer. What to do about Animal Brown and his mates?

The damage to the paint job was bad, a thin line of warning across its glittering blue. Grant was all for smacking Ricky Patterson's head in, but we all knew what that meant. If we took him on we had to take them all. David was with Grant. I sometimes think he liked to scrap. He was tall and solid, a forward in the First Fifteen rugby team at High School, his fists like rocks on the end of his arms and he knew how to use them. That left Kevin and me. I was tall and thin. A weed I suppose, with a rough paint job of acne and scraggy hair. No fighter. Kevin was the smallest of us all, wiry with it and fit, not afraid to fight if it came to it, but he agreed with me. It was better to avoid them. Where the Dodge went the Desoto wasn't far behind, that meant there would always be more of them than us, we weren't sure we could take them in a fair fight. So it was left another unanswered question. The town was too small to avoid them for good, but I guess we just hoped they'd smash into a lamppost or get sent to borstal or something. We tried to laugh it off, cast it into the absorbing black of the empty night, but in the back of our minds warrior ghosts danced, thrusting spears and shields to mock our fears.

We didn't have long to wait. The next week finally gave birth to Friday night and we were let loose, casting off school uniforms like prisoners getting a weekend pass, the faded bell-bottom jeans a flag of freedom. I remember that night like it was cut crystal. Mum and Dad were on at me to do more study because School Certificate was coming up. Grant had got three subjects the year before and they thought I could do better. I didn't give a shit. I wanted to be out there in the night, strapped into the rally seat of the Anglia, burning down Marine Drive, hearing the singing of the exhaust echoing off the houses as we escaped, a cold bottle in my hands taking my head out of there.

Anyway, it wasn't much of a night. We scored some beer, cruised round. Murdered a couple of hours in the hamburger bar, waiting for the something that never arrived. About ten o'clock we drove to the Majestic to see if we knew anyone coming out, to see ... I don't know, to see what was happening. Nothing was. We gave it up and decided to go to Lookout Hill. It made a change from the reserve and there might be girls up there, escaping for the night in their daddy's car, happy to share a beer or if we were really lucky, the back seat.

We drove down McKenzie Street and straight into the ambush. The Dodge and Desoto pulled across the end of the street, blocking our way out. At first I thought there was a small army of them, spilling out of doors in grease-stained jeans and hole-pocked T-shirts. Ricky Patterson ran towards us, a full DB bottle in his hand, raised ready to throw.

"Stay where you are or I'll put this through your fucking windscreen!"

"Back up!" I was shouting. "Back up!"

"It's a full bottle of beer. It'll go straight through the windscreen." Grant seemed almost calm, his eyes fixed on the advancing troops.

"It won't," I said. "I'm telling you it fucking won't! Back up, turn round!"

But he wouldn't. Wouldn't risk that beautiful car. We sat waiting, the windows wound up, the doors locked. I counted them. Six of them against the four of us, I thought with those odds we might have a chance. Then they seemed to be pushing Animal Brown forward. I should tell you the legend of Animal Brown, how he got his name. They reckoned that when he was thirteen he'd got into a fight and the guy bit his eye out. With one eye missing he took a knife and stabbed the guy in the balls. He sang soprano after that if you know what I mean. That was the story anyway. I watched him walk forward, that mad light in his awkward eyes and then I felt sick, a real sensation of nausea. He had a heavy length of chain in his hand. Just when my mind was filled with smashed jaws and spitting teeth the others all started cajoling Animal Brown to put the chain back, as if that was going too far even for them, the trouble it could bring. He looked uncertain, but he turned round and put the chain back in the Dodge. then he walked bold, swaggering up to Grant's window. Grant wound down the window.

"Gidday Grant. How's it goin'?"

"Not bad."

"What're yer up to?"

"Nothin' much."

"Bit of a flash car eh mate?"

"It's all right."

"Yer a bit of a wanker aren't yer mate?"

Grant said nothing, just stared straight ahead.

"I said yer a bit of a wanker. Right?" Animal Brown was ready. He started punching Grant through the window. Bang, bang, bang, Grant's head snapping sideways.

"Close the window!" I was shouting, but Grant was running on instinct. He opened the door and knocked Animal Brown backwards. We all piled out. I thought this was it. But then I began to realise what it was all about. It was an initiation, a rite of passage for Animal Brown. He'd used all the words he could against Grant, he could delay no longer, now he had to make good on his threats or lose face, that was why he'd brought out the chain, he wanted to impress. And I saw too that he was afraid, not like we were at that moment, of physical violence, of pain, he was afraid his chosen tribe would reject him, he was afraid of being alone. His task was to beat Grant, to take down the leader of the other tribe to win his place in his own. When that was done no doubt they'd all set on the rest of us.

But now the scrap was happening, it was real. I saw then how much bigger than Animal Brown Grant was, that Animal Brown was actually quite small. Grant grabbed him and banged him into the tar seal a couple of times.

"Had enough cunt?" Grant was spitting as he shouted. "Is that what you wanted?" Grant stood up and began walking back to the car. Animal Brown came after him, rabbit-punching him in the back. Grant turned on him, clasped him in a bullish embrace and pushed him to the ground again.

"Just fucking leave us alone cunt!" Grant pounded him on the tar seal. He got up and began to walk back to the car, his eyes whirlpools of rage. Animal Brown came after him once more, less certain, I could see he was hurt. Grant clasped him, knocked him down, almost as if they were hugging in affection. Grant banged Animal Brown's head on the road a few more times.

"Had enough cunt? Is this what you wanted?" Grant got up and Animal Brown lay there for a moment. It was all over.

We all stood there in the street exchanging threats and my fists were clenched, I was breathing hard, still afraid but waiting for it to happen, the six of them against the four of us. But it never did. Something had gone out of them. Seeing Animal Brown beaten seemed to lessen their resolve, they seemed uncertain. They could see that now the moment had finally come we weren't so afraid as they'd imagined, besides which Animal Brown was already hurt. They began to back off, climbing into their cars and insulting us as if it had been their victory. The ritual was over. The Dodge and Desoto snarled into the night, a beer bottle smashing on to the road behind them as if they were still undaunted, still wild, hard.

We drove the other way, the adrenalin like a war potion, filling our spinning minds with a kind of insanity. We all shouted at each other about what we should and shouldn't have done, but at the same time felt good that Grant had beaten Animal Brown, felt the sense of our unity. We drove into the fat black night, anxious to be gone, to be free. We drove fast, eager to reach the future, even though we knew we were driving in a circle and the destination was where we started, the destination was nowhere.

*

At the end of that year I got six subjects in School Certificate. Don't ask me how, God knows I never did any study. The marks weren't that great but I got into the sixth form and did okay there too. Things began to look a little different, I began to see there might be a way out of Karaka, there might be a place for me too on that knowledge train the rich kids caught at the end of school life, that took them to comfortable places and steady lives. I did the seventh form and went to university. I did all right, the world began to expand, billowing out of books and concepts scrawled in blackboard chalk, taking me to ports of call I'd never imagined.

I went back to Karaka about once a month, to see my parents, but the place had lost its hold on me, the circle had broken at last. In my final year at uni I stopped into the Karaka pub and found Kevin working there. He and Grant were distant but still friends. We talked about old times but that wasn't all. I could see into the other bar from where I was sitting and there was Animal Brown. He looked like a funeral, his odd eyes lacklustre and staring down at the beer-stained carpet, staring into a pool of defeat, wondering whether to jump. I wanted to feel glad, feel a sense of triumph that he was down and out, but I couldn't, I just felt a sort of wary pity.

"He comes in here every day," Kevin said, his tone matter of fact, almost resigned. "Gets completely wasted and goes home."

I hadn't seen Animal Brown since my last year at school, but I'd picked up bits and pieces about him before I went to uni. I found out the truth about his eye. It seems his old man used to beat him up regularly when he was a kid, and one day he'd knocked him on to the heater and it had gouged his eye out. I also found out his real name was Brian.

Anyway, a year later I was back in Karaka, I was on my way overseas and was spending a last few days with my parents. I called into the pub and Kevin was still there. He stood me a couple of farewell drinks and we talked our way back across the years, back to that night in McKenzie Street.

"Does Animal Brown still come in here?" I asked.

"Killed himself," Kevin said in an even tone. "Left here one day about four months ago, went home, sat in his car and gassed himself in the garage."

I just nodded, absorbing this information, unsure about how I should feel. I looked at Kevin and he just raised his eyebrows. He didn't say anything and neither did I. I sipped on my beer and thought back to that night when we'd been so afraid of Animal Brown and his tribe. I thought how easily fear could turn to sympathy, I thought of luck and pain, I thought of the future.

* * *
A Distant Summer's Day

The summer stretched out like a long white bone, lying dry and forgotten in some parched field. The sun cooked the line cracked, dust swirling ground and everything on the farm suffered from the heat. Inside the farmhouse Russell lay on his bed and looked at the ceiling.

He was dressed in red T-shirt and faded blue flared jeans on a slight frame, almost thin. Dark brown eyes, an angular face, black hair parted on one side, almost down to his shoulders. He lit up a cigarette and exhaled. His father would complain about the smoking, said it made the place smell like a betting agency, a T.A.B.

"Horses and fags," he would say. "A waste of bloody money."

The stereo was on. Hendrix. Third Stone From The Sun. Russell liked the title. He imagined flying up above the farm, the countryside, out into black and seeing the Earth spinning like a blue rock. He leaned over and flicked ash into the paua-shell ashtray. He had been back from the city for a week, his university studies completed, and he knew that sooner rather than later his father would ask him what his plans were.

"What are you going to do with your life?" he would say, as if Russell had to answer at that exact moment, or a chance would slip away, like an eel you almost caught in the shallow of the river, sliding through your fingers, darting like black lightning into deep green water, gone. Russell knew what his father wanted to hear. Russell's grandfather had left the farm to his son when he died, now Russell's father wanted to hand it on to his only son.

"You can't go wrong with a piece of land," he would say. "If everything else turns to shit, it's always there."

Russell was not so sure. The land made a claim on you. It had to be kept tamed or it would revert to its wild ways, sprouting gorse and thistle like unkempt hair, blackberries with thorns like thousands of teeth, holding you fast, dragging you down until you were buried in the earth with the sheep bones and dead car bodies.

His grandfather had died working on the farm. A heart attack while he was cutting down an old tree. Russell did not intend to go the same way and a meeting that morning had given him added hope that a different path might open before him. He had been in the small town three kilometres from the farmhouse when at the dairy he had bumped into Josie Havers.

Josie had been at school with Russell and she was now resident in the city after completing a Fine Arts degree, trying to make her way as a painter. It was a pleasant surprise to come across her and they arranged to meet that night at the pub. It would be the last chance to get together as she was heading back to the city the next day.

Though Russell had not seen Josie for an age, there was a reminder of her upon his bedroom wall - A copy of the Desiderata; " _Go placidly amidst the noise and haste_ ..." She had given it to him at his eighteenth birthday party. He could still recall how she had looked that night; her hair long and brown, a string of red and green beads round her neck over her purple tie-dyed T-shirt, her bell-bottomed jeans emblazoned with patches of cloth flowers, paisley patterns. Her style seemed incongruous to Russell as he imagined her sitting on her father's farm surrounded by sheep-dips and shearing gangs.

Beneath the Desiderata was a desk, upon the desk a stack of books and a silver framed photo of his mother. She was seated by a lake, forever twenty five, shoulder length wavy dark hair, a smile on the edge of laughter. Taken just a year before she gave birth to Russell and died a few weeks later from an unstoppable infection, a complication from the pregnancy.

Russell's gaze shifted from the photo to a little brass incense burner beside it, also a gift from his eighteenth birthday party. His father also hated it when he burned incense.

"Smells like a bloody brothel," he would say.

Russell was finishing the cigarette when he heard above the stereo the Landrover grinding up the driveway. The record finished and outside, the Landrover's motor died. A few moments later the bedroom door opened and his father stood there, so tall his grey-flecked hair was almost touching the lintel. He was big framed and broad shouldered. His wide hands were like skin covered diaries that told of toil in dirt-etched lines and cracks. He wore a dark green shirt and dark brown trousers.

"I thought you'd still be in town," his father said.

"No. I came back about two hours ago."

"Oh, right. How many cigarettes have you had? You could cut the air in here with a knife. I don't know how you can stand the stink."

"I don't notice it."

His father grunted. "Thought you might have called in to Jack Brown's."

"The barber's?"

"It wouldn't hurt to smarten up."

"Yeah ... maybe ... " Russell was not going to be drawn into another argument about his hair.

"Well ... are you here for tea?"

"Yeah. But I'll be going to the pub after." Russell hesitated. He did not wish to tell his father he was meeting Josie Havers, but his father might find out from the neighbours or someone from the pub. "I'm meeting Josie Havers there. I saw her in town. She's visiting her folks."

"Is that right? I haven't seen her since she went down to the city. Wasn't she going to be a designer?"

"She went to art school." Russell did not feel inclined to add that she was now a full time painter.

"Oh, right ... well, say hello for me when you see her. Anyway ... tea's at six thirty."

"Okay."

"Righto. Well ... " His father seemed about to say something more, then turned and walked away. Russell sat and listened to the old house stretching and flexing in the heat.

*

The air in the pub was dull, yellow tinged, with the faint odour of Dettol sanitizer and beer stained carpet. But Russell did not notice how old and tired the whole place seemed. He was engaged in small talk with Josie and he felt fascinated by her. She was tall, her brown hair still long, framing a smooth, oval face. Her eyes were large, with a lot of mascara. She wore blue jeans, a white muslin top, a wide, patterned belt, thin copper earrings and she carried a black handbag.

She seemed in the familiarity of the pub with her air of individuality like an envoy from a far flung culture. She seemed at home, but Russell could tell she would soon return to her new world, even as they began to talk of old days. Days of crossing the disused dam half drunk, of staggering up the big peak and seeing the whole world held dry and shimmering below, of midnight drives in the back of hotted up Holden utes, the burr of the exhaust tearing open the night behind them. Travelling fast into the vast abyss of boredom that opened before them every Friday night. Despite the claustrophobia of the farm and the two pub town, Russell felt as if he had been part of something – something that was a celebration of life, liberty, seeking. He found himself smiling and laughing a lot, feeling easier than he had all week. When the conversation turned to what they had done since, he was intrigued to learn of Josie's new life as an artist.

" ... So I only sold about a third of my pieces at the last exhibition," she was saying. "But the gallery owner has faith in me – he likes my style, or he likes me, I'm not too sure which." She smiled and sipped at her drink. "What about you? Any dreams?"

"Not really. Armed only with my trusty B.A., I face the world alone."

Josie gave a half laugh.

"Actually," Russell continued. "I think I might head back to the city. An Arts degree must still be good for something."

"Well ... if you do move back, you'd be welcome to crash at our place. It's a rough old barn but people are always dropping in. Interesting people – artists, poets, musicians ... "

Russell smiled. "Yeah, that'd be sweet."

Josie opened her handbag, took out a pen and notebook and began writing. "I'll give you the address. If I'm not there when you turn up just mention my name and it'll be cool."

"Thanks Josie." She gave him the paper and he folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. They talked on and Russell retained the sensation of possibility, as if a fresh world was already humming all around him.

*

The next morning, Russell was up early as he was going to be helping to crutch sheep. When he went into the kitchen his father was cooking at the stove, clattering pans and knives. Russell sat at the table, the smell of bacon like a haze in the air. His father brought the breakfast over. They began to eat.

"I've been thinking," Russell's father said. "With you here it might be time to look at expanding. It wouldn't break the bank to add more stock."

Russell found himself chewing slowly. He swallowed, searched for words.

"I don't know Dad. I was thinking ... I might do something with my degree."

"What do you mean?"

"Well ... " Russell hesitated, just for a moment, then continued. "I might move back down to the city."

"The city?"

"Yeah. I think there'd be opportunities."

"Opportunities? Like what?"

"I don't know. I'd have to get there to find out. But ... I'm pretty sure that's what I'll do."

"I see ... "

Russell said nothing more. He could see his father was hurt. His face was set hard with the effort of appearing unconcerned.

"Well ... " his father said at last. "It's your life."

Russell said nothing. His father acted as if he was taking the matter in his stride, but Russell knew that was not the end of it, that he would take his resentment and hold it inside, like a hard black coal, squeezing it until it shattered. For now there was no point in saying any more. He felt the silence between them, but he would not step back, when his father laid his claim, he would resist.

*

The shearing shed was filled with the sound of clattering hooves on slick wood, the radio blaring, the whirr of the electric shears, the air heavy with the oil-wool dusky smell of sheep. Russell was taking a break, a mug of tea in his hand when one of the wool roustabouts came in from outside and spoke to him as she walked past.

"You old man says can you give a hand in the number two shed."

"Okay." Russell put down the remains of the tea, stepped out into raw sunshine and walked across to the other shed. Standing at the entrance to the shed, for a moment all he could see was a vague darkness. Then the scene slowly took shape. In one of the pens his father held an old ewe, in his free hand was a black handled butcher's knife. He turned his head and looked at Russell, his eyes grey, cold, deep. He turned back and with a sure swift stroke, cut the sheep's throat. A crimson wash fell across the sheep's front, it struggled, but could not escape.

Russell turned away. He felt his skin turn cold, felt he was going pale, an unpleasant sensation slowly emanated from the centre of his body, seeping out to the ends of his fingers. He felt dizzy, white spots popping at the corners of his eyes. He saw a distant summer's day.

His father holding the sheep fast, his rough fingers curled into its springy wool.

"Hand me the knife," he had said.

Russell stood unmoving, a hot stream of tears running down his young cheeks.

"Come on," his father said. "Let's see you be a man. This lot are only good for dog tucker. Hand me the knife."

Russell picked up the knife, gave it to his father.

"Don't look away," his father said as he butchered the sheep. But Russell turned and ran, his thin frame shaking with grief, feeling for the first time that he could hate his father.

Russell brought himself back to the present with a deep breath, the memory turning to anger. He began walking, with long, determined strides, knew only that he was walking away from his father. When he reached the farmhouse, he went straight to his bedroom, dragged his old green tramping pack out of his wardrobe and began to fill it. He had just finished, crushing down his clothes when he heard the Landrover bouncing up the driveway. He was tightening the straps on the pack when his father came in.

"We're only half way finished down there," his father said. "What the hell's going on?"

Russell rounded on him. "You knew I'd see that. That's why you called me over to the number two shed."

His father's mask fell away, the anger within him broke and splintered, his lips curled back.

"Jesus bloody Christ !" he spat. "If you can't stand to see an old ewe slaughtered you're better off out of it! You never could stand it. I should have known you'd never stay on the farm. You're just like her, just as bloody pig-headed ... "

His father trailed off, seemed almost surprised that he had said so much.

"I didn't kill her Dad. I lived, and she died. That's all there is to it."

"Pah! Bullshit! It's not about that."

" It was always about that. How many times did you wish it was me? That I had never been?"

"Rubbish! Don't give me your bloody university malarkey."

"Whatever ... anyway, I'm leaving. Now."

"What are you talking about? You've got to get yourself organised first." Russell was not sure, but his father sounded almost anxious.

Russell patted the pack. "I've got everything I need."

"Well ... where the hell will you go?"

"Back to the city. The bus comes through the town at five twenty."

"And what'll you do when you get there?"

"I know a few places I can stay." Russell decided once again not to mention Josie.

"What about money?" his father said, an edge of cunning in his tone. "You won't get far without any dough."

Russell hesitated for a moment. "I've still got money from my last bursary payment. It'll keep me for a couple of months." He picked up the pack and eased past his father, out of the bedroom. His father followed him down the hall. Russell reached the front door which was standing open, stepped through and walked across the porch, onto the driveway.

"Let me drive you," his father said. "You'll bloody bake in this heat." Russell stopped. He was certain now that he detected a note of anxiety in his father's tone. He knew the offer was the closest his father would come to an apology, a reconciliation.

"I'll call you," he said. "When I get set up." His father said nothing. Russell felt the moment hanging between them, a jumble of unspoken words. He walked on until the driveway met the road, turned and looked back . His father looked old and small. Russell felt a sense of sudden guilt, felt he was abandoning his father who was about to be swallowed by the old house and its dark memories. But he pushed the feeling to one side. Resolute, he turned and walked on, the heat rising up from the road like a warm, calm river of air, leading him forward to an uncertain freedom.

* * *
Monaro Dreaming

My best mate Jimmy had two Dads. One was the sort of joker you could have a laugh with, who seemed to care about his son. The other guy was a bastard, with swift fists and a vicious tongue. It was like those things you read in the Bible, about the demons possessing people. "... And he threw himself on the ground and gnashed his teeth and cried out why dost thou torment me..." sort of thing.

Except it wasn't any red horned Devil that got into Archie McAnders, it was the demon you bought at the bottle store – Jack Daniels - and he didn't bother with any mixer, not even ice. Just come in from work, watch TV and drink.

I suppose he was what you'd call a "functioning alcoholic" – he still worked, paid the bills and presented himself as just an ordinary hard working bloke who liked an occasional tipple. But when the curtains were drawn of an evening, Archie, or Arch to his friends – became the tyrant king of a desolate realm where all love had been drowned in the dregs of a well used whiskey glass.

I met the first Archie on the night of Jimmy's sixteenth birthday. Jimmy and I had become friends not long before, bonding over a love of hotted up cars, an interest in the last days of the Space Programme, the possibility of UFOs (Space 1999 was a favourite TV programme for both of us, along with Dr Who and of course re-runs of Star Trek) and not least, the incomparable Joni Everday, Jimmy's soon to be girlfriend. Jimmy and I looked quite alike, although he was taller. Both with long dark hair, me with a sort of benign, bemused expression, him with a sort of hunted look – his eyes dancing, restless, his smiles somewhat hesitant.

So we were firm friends by the time I was first invited round for tea at the McAnders' to help celebrate Jimmy's sixteenth. I didn't know then why Jimmy didn't have a full on party, but I was to learn why later. Arch was in fine form that night. He was a lot shorter than Jimmy, wiry, with a leathery look to him. I remember how worn and weathered his large hands looked. It was a dry spot for him – he hadn't had a drink in about a week. He was a printer by trade but knew a lot about cars. We had a great time talking about free flow exhausts, twin carburettors, overhead camshafts and who made the best fat tyres.

Arch also had what was to me a great redeeming feature. For several years he'd owned a 1969 Holden Monaro which he'd bought new, seldom taking it out of the garage and treating it with an affection and gentleness that was often denied his family. It was a beautiful machine. A sort of silvery bronze with flowing curves and wide mag wheels.

There was no Mrs McAnders. Jimmy told me that she and Arch had fought to the point where she just up and left one night and now only sent a letter on birthdays and a regular Christmas card. He seemed to withdraw into himself as he spoke of it, as if just mentioning a half-remembered dark dream. I sensed he didn't want to go into details so I just accepted what he said and left it at that. Arch worked and Jimmy played mother. He did the housework, the cooking and even to my amazement, his own laundry.

That was why I guess, Jimmy was always keen to come round to my house. I too was an only child and that was another thing we had in common, so my parents always made him welcome and at times it seemed he almost lived with us, as if he was a second son for my parents and a brother to me.

But it was not long before I met the other Archie McAnders. It was towards the end of the sixth form and we were sitting University Entrance, coming home from a particularly gruelling maths exam. We'd hung out with some mates after the exam and we were running late. Jimmy had to cook dinner and he invited me along. It must have been about twenty to seven when we finally came in the door. Arch was seated at the kitchen table, a bottle of Jack Daniels and a half filled glass before him. I smelt the alcohol in the air, like a scent of some sweet decayed thing, a thin haze in the still house.

"Sorry I'm late Dad," Jimmy said. "The exam was a tough one. But I think I'll probably just pass."

Arch stared lizard-like, unblinking. "What time do you call this?" he said, gesturing to the clock on the wall.

"I said I'm sorry," Jimmy said. "I'll get the dinner right away."

"Dinner's at six thirty, not fucking seven thirty," Arch said.

"I said I was sorry."

"Sorry?" Arch leaned forward and his eyes bulged. "It's not much fucking use being sorry. That doesn't feed a man does it?"

"Yeah, well ... whatever. I had a tough exam."

Arch slowly stood up. "Tough?" he slurred. "What the fuck would you know about tough?"

"Take it easy Dad. Dinner's on its way."

"You're on her side aren't ya? You and ya bloody mother out to do me in ya little piece of shit!" Suddenly he lurched round the table and with surprising alacrity swung at Jimmy with a hard clenched fist. Jimmy took the full force of the blow and staggered back. Before he could recover, Arch was on him again, punching him in the face, one, two, three times. Jimmy slumped onto one knee and I could see a line of blood trickling from his nose.

I was shocked into silence. I felt afraid, I felt outrage, I felt helpless. But that was it. Arch sat back down at the table and poured himself another drink as if nothing had happened.

At the same time Jimmy got to his feet and stood with his hand cradling his cheek, wiping at his nose. His eyes were moist – I thought he was going to cry. But he held back and just glared at Arch.

"You can get your own dinner," Jimmy said, his voice tremulous.

"Yeah ... what a fucking surprise," Arch snarled and swirled the whiskey in the glass.

Jimmy turned to me. "Let's get out of here. Go somewhere civilized."

So we left and walked to my place, my parents as always glad to see Jimmy and happy to feed and fuss over him. They knew Arch was a drinker but we didn't divulge how free he was with his fists and I think Jimmy was grateful for the moment to forget about the four-walled boxing ring his home sometimes became.

*

It was about this time Joni Everday came into our lives. She, her younger sister Annabelle and their family came to our small town attracted by cheaper housing. Joni was average height, curled blonde hair, eyes as if someone had painted a piece of the sky on them and she had a smile that could destroy a man at a hundred metres. Her sister was also endowed with good looks and a winning smile. I don't know quite what Joni saw in us, but whenever we three were together, something seemed to synchronise in the complicated clockwork mechanism of the universe and we would find ourselves laughing and at ease, united against the foes of conformity and conservatism.

I was madly in love with her, would have slain armies and drenched the school back field in blood if she had but shown me favour. It was not to be. She and Jimmy were drawn together like magnet and steel. I gathered her own family was troubled by a father who was bad with money, a gambler, and she did her best to support a mother who though quietly suffering, gave a proud look to the world and made sure the clothes her family wore were darned, washed and pressed and though they were poor they never looked poor. And in defiance of the hell she felt her wedding vows bound her to, Mrs Everday prided herself in her table being graced with nourishing fare however humble, for though she herself had made a bad bargain with fate, her girls would not go without.

All three of us, me, Joni and Jimmy, enrolled in the seventh form and I don't think Jimmy knew what he wanted to do, but Joni and I had vague thoughts of going to Varsity – for me hearing stories of parties, protests and promiscuity, started a little spark in my mind that it might be fun. Joni wanted to escape her family and make something of herself so she could avoid the grasping pit of a bad marriage.

So it was we cruised happily through that year. We went to parties, went to the nearest beach and generally enjoyed being alive – even Arch it seemed had learned for the moment to keep his fists to himself. But the gods are bored by human contentment and they decided to make sport of us early in the spring. Jimmy came round to my place one Saturday morning and he looked ashen and shaken. Joni was gone.

We were in my room, Jimmy perched on the end of the bed, his voice tense.

"She's gone mate," he said. "Gone to the city."

"What for? Whereabouts in the city?"

"Her mother won't tell me. She just said she's gone to do some secretarial course, that an opportunity came up and she decided to take it."

"Without telling you?"

"Her mother said Joni didn't want to hurt my feelings. She said Joni thought she was too young to get serious. She said she and Joni's father had discussed it and they thought we were getting too close. She said she and Joni's old man had discussed it with my father and it was better that Joni went away. That she was sick of school."

"But that's so much bullshit, she wouldn't go without saying something. They must have made her."

"That's what I think too. Anyway, I'm going back home now to talk to the old man –I'll bet he's got plenty to do with it."

"Give me a few minutes and I'll come with you."

*

Soon after we walked into Jimmy's front yard and there was Arch with the Monaro, washing it tenderly with a sponge as if it could feel his hard hands and how much he loved that machine.

"So what's the story?" Jimmy said when we were close enough.

"The story about what?" Arch said and I was relieved that the tone of his voice suggested he was sober, the hour too early to imbibe, even for him.

"With Joni. Don't pretend you don't know what I mean."

Arch stepped back from the car and shook the sponge. "It's better that she's gone. You're both too young to get so involved. Her parents and I discussed it and we think you'll both be better off."

"Better off? Jesus ... what the fuck would you know about it, with your face always buried inside a bottle."

Arch bristled, seemed to rise up, a cloud of anger spread across his face. "You better watch what you're saying. I still say what goes around here." Just at that moment the phone in the house began to trill. Arch looked like he had more to say but he threw the sponge into a bucket. "I'm going to answer that," he said. "And when I've finished we're going to have a mature discussion about this." So saying, he turned and walked into the house.

Jimmy stood with his head bowed, his face forlorn. But then he seemed to stretch, become a little taller, his expression hardened. Without a word, he walked round to the driver's side of the Monaro, opened the door and got in.

"What the hell are you doing?" I said. "Arch will go spare."

"Get in," Jimmy barked.

"Are you crazy?"

"Just get in."

I hesitated for a moment then climbed in the passenger's side. Jimmy turned the key and the motor caught and leapt into life, the heavy V-8 purring like a contented cat. Jimmy backed the car out of the driveway and we'd just turned onto the road when Arch came out of the house, running at a speed that surprised me.

"Little bastard!" he was shouting. "Little bastard!"

Jimmy selected drive and put his foot down. The wheels spun and the Monaro surged forward, leaving Arch in a cloud of rebellious blue smoke.

"Jesus Christ!" I shouted. "Jesus, you've done it now!"

"Look at him! Not so fucking tough now, is he!" Jimmy began to laugh, a deranged, jangling laugh that caught me up and I started laughing too. We drove aimlessly for a few minutes and then the laughter subsided.

"Where are we going?" I said.

"To the city mate. We're going to find her."

"But that's a six hour drive. And then we don't know where she is."

"No, but I bet her sister knows."

So it was a few minutes later we pulled up outside the Blue Moon Hamburger Bar where Annabelle worked on the weekends. Jimmy went inside and was back within ten minutes. He had a slip of paper with him.

"Her address. She's staying with her aunt and her family. Annabelle won't tell me more than that." He gunned the motor and we were on our way, fugitives in the pursuit of love and truth.

*

Six hours later, late afternoon, we entered the city, the air now spiced with the scent of cars, coal smoke and a slight tang of something metallic. The maps Arch kept in the glove-box guided us to the right road and the right house.

"You wait here," Jimmy said. "I'll see what's what."

I sat in the car while Jimmy knocked on the door. It opened to reveal a middle-aged woman with a striking resemblance to Joni. They talked for a moment then the woman went back inside. Joni appeared and she and Jimmy embraced. At last they separated and Jimmy turned and gave me a half wave before he disappeared inside with Joni. About twenty minutes later Jimmy came out alone. He climbed back into the driver's seat and just sat there.

"Well?" I said.

"She's pregnant mate."

"Oh shit. Really?"

"Yeah. Her olds didn't want the shame. Small town and all. They didn't want me to know and Joni said she didn't want to tell me before she left so I didn't wreck my life as well."

"Oh shit ... what are you going to do?"

"I don't know. She's having the baby. Her aunt's going to bring it up here. After that ... I don't know." We sat in silence for a minute or two and finally Jimmy seemed to awaken from his state of shock. "Anyway ... we'd better get this car back, or the old man'll have the cops out looking for us."

*

The drive back was sombre, quiet, and we had just enough cash between us for the gas. It was after midnight when we pulled up Jimmy's drive, tired and hungry, and switched the Monaro off. We got out of the car and went round to the back door of the house and stepped into the kitchen. The other Archie was waiting, sitting at the table, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels before him. He leapt up as soon as he saw Jimmy.

"Little bastard!" he drunkenly roared and rushed forward, swinging. Jimmy stood his ground and with his left arm blocked the blow. Then he swung his right fist and caught Arch on the side of his head. Arch went down as if someone had let all the air out of him.

"Not this time!" Jimmy yelled. He stood with clenched fists over his hurt father but Archie just gave a feeble moan and lay there, stricken. Jimmy stood menacingly for a moment, then stepped back, he seemed to slump into himself. "Jesus. What have I done?" he said quietly.

"You only defended yourself," I said, feeling shaken but glad that Archie had been the loser. We stood there looking at Archie for a few moments, wondering what to do next. Then my thoughts seemed to clear. "Listen, why don't you come and stay at my place until we work out what to do? It's not safe here now. My Mum and Dad'll be glad to have you. They'll understand about your dad." Jimmy looked at the prone Archie for a moment more then nodded.

"Okay. I'll grab some clothes."

A few minutes later, bag in hand, Jimmy was ready. We hauled the out to it Archie onto the sofa in the lounge where he began to snore softly and Jimmy tossed the Monaro keys onto the kitchen table. We walked out of the house, our feet crunching on the gravel of the drive and the cool air smelling faintly of chimney smoke. We walked away from Archie and his precious car, away from his vicious fists and whiskey twisted tongue. The streetlights cast their ghostly glow and we did not talk as we walked on.

* * *
The Weekend At Carson's Folly

Joel sat in the lounge, half reading The Daughter of Time, the book they were studying in Third Form English, and half listening to the radio. The song playing was Candle In The Wind, the new one from Elton John, about Marilyn Monroe, and Joel decided he liked it. It made him feel, what was it? Melancholy, that was the word. A sort of ... resigned sadness. Joel turned his attention back to the book and was trying to become absorbed when the phone rang in the kitchen.

It rang three or four times before Joel's mother called out from her bedroom at the back of the house: "Get that will you Joel. I'm still lying down." Joel put down the book, went into the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

"Hello? Bannerton residence."

"Hi Joel, it's Dan."

"Oh hi. How's it going?"

"Good. What're you up to?"

"I'm trying to read the Daughter of Time. Have you finished it yet?"

"Not really, no. I hate reading on Friday afternoons. Listen ... do you want to go on a camping trip tomorrow? To Carson's Folly? We'll camp out on the Saturday night and come back on the Sunday. My dad'll drive us up there and pick us up. We can use my tent. Have you got a sleeping bag?"

"Yeah. Somewhere."

"Okay ... well ... check it out with your Mum and call me back."

"Okay ... sounds cool." After he had put down the receiver, Joel walked down the dim, slightly musty hall to his Mother's bedroom.

Her door was open and although it was a fine spring day his mother had the blinds drawn. She had her feet up on the bed and she was propped up on pillows. The room was grey and dusty, the smell of alcohol and Nivea hand cream hung in the air. His mother held a glass filled with gin and tonic, the ice in it rattling like chains as she sipped.

Through the gloom Joel made out his mother's face – sallow, somewhat drawn, but still attractive at thirty five. Long dark hair down to her shoulders, a floral print dress. The bottle of Gordon's gin sat on a coffee table beside the bed, half empty.

"Who was that on the phone?" she said, the words a little slurred. Joel felt a shiver of self righteous disgust. She was drunk already and it was only quarter past five.

"It was Dan," he said. "He wants me to go on a camping trip with him tomorrow. Up at Carson's Folly. His dad'll drive us up there and pick us up on the Sunday afternoon."

"Well I don't know ... " his mother said. "How much will it all cost?"

"It won't cost anything really. I'll just buy some sausages, a couple of cans of beans. I'll take some toothpaste."

"Well ... I suppose it'll be all right. But who's going to keep me company? I'll miss you." She smiled and took another sip of her drink.

Joel wanted to say something smart like – "you'll have your 'Uncle Gordon' to keep you company as usual," but he bit his lip. "Okay ... well," he said. "I'll call Dan and tell him it's on." He turned to go but his mother spoke again.

"Could you fetch me some fresh ice? And some tonic? Here ... take the glass and bring it back."

Joel took the glass and felt a little tinge of repugnance as he came close enough to smell his mother's breath, but he took the glass and went into the kitchen to get the ice. If only his father was there, he thought. He would put a stop to it, the way he always used to when she'd had too much. Joel could almost hear him say: "You've had enough for today now Kathleen. I'll take that glass." Or if only he had a brother or sister to help him - but there was no-one. Joel just went to the fridge and got the ice and tonic, thinking that at least tomorrow he would be free.

*

The white Holden slid to a halt on the gravel beside the narrow country road, and Joel and Dan both climbed out. Mr Frobish, Dan's father, stepped out too - a tall, rangy man of about forty, with wide dark eyes, dressed in a polo-necked sweater, a brown corduroy jacket and brown corduroy trousers.

"Well boys," he said. "It looks like you've brought the weather with you. It should be quite warm down by the river. Now, are you sure you've got everything?"

"Yeah. I checked it twice," Dan said as he was pulling a heavy tan tramping pack out of the boot. He was the younger version of his father, with the large, dark brown eyes, the straight black hair, and the wiry but muscular frame. He wore flared jeans and a blue checked bush shirt. Joel looked almost delicate beside them, with light brown hair, a wide-eyed, open expression, and a slightly plumpish face, also dressed in flares and a black and brown bush shirt.

"All right lads," Mr Frobish said. "I won't go down to the river with you. I'll leave you to it and see you on Sunday at five o'clock. Make sure you keep the campsite tidy and don't forget to put your fire out if you go wandering. Okay ... have fun. See you." A few moments later they could hear the Holden in the distance, heading back to the town.

They threw their packs over the fence and set off across an open paddock. After about a fifteen minute walk they descended a path down a fairly steep track that led to the river. They selected their campsite and began setting up the tent.

"Why do they call this place Carson's Folly anyway?" Joel said a short time later as Dan was hammering in one of the last tent pegs.

"Because it used to belong to a guy called Carson. In the Great Depression he went broke. See that rock jutting out at the top of the cliff? They say when he lost everything, he got drunk, came down and jumped off the top of the cliff into the river. He couldn't swim but they reckon the fall would have killed him anyway." Dan had stopped hammering and was pulling on the ropes to see if they were taut. "And now people go swimming here every summer." He stepped back from the two-man tent and surveyed his handiwork. "Looks all right, don't you reckon? Let's go for a bit of a wander and later we'll collect some firewood."

*

The rest of the day they explored down river, throwing rocks at floating sticks and generally just frittering away the hours. Late in the afternoon, they came round a bend and were assailed by a powerful, clinging stench.

"Jesus, what's that?" Joel said putting his hand across his nose.

"There by that big rock," Dan said. "It's a possum. I'll bet it's been dead a week."

"At least it's not up-river from our campsite."

"I'll fix it," Dan said and reached down and picked up a smooth stone. He hurled it at the possum and it hit with a thud and bounced off.

"Good shot," Joel said and reached down and picked up a stone. He took careful aim and let fly. The stone struck and there was a thump and a tearing sound. The possums' bloated belly burst open and a cascade of writhing maggots poured out.

"Bloody Norah!" Dan said. "That's bloody revolting!" They both started to laugh and then turned and ran as quickly as they could across the rocks, upstream, back to clean water and clear air.

On the way back to the camp they spent some time collecting firewood and later, in the soft grey twilight, they sat by the campfire, a meal of Huttons sausages and Watties baked beans settling inside them. On the opposite bank the bush marched down to the river and sat there like a black beast, listening to their conversation and watching them with a myriad of red and yellow eyes. There was the tumbling gurgle of the river and a rustling from within the dark foliage. The air smelled of wood smoke and fresh water. Joel was just listening to the mournful plea of a nearby Morepork owl, when Dan pulled something out of his pocket.

"Look what I've got," he said. He held up a blue and white packet of Rothmans.

"Jeez. Where did you get those?"

"From my mother's carton of ten. She smokes so much she'll think she just used them herself. Do you want one?"

"Okay."

They lit the cigarettes and Joel tried inhaling. The smoke was harsh and stinging. He began to hack and cough. Dan laughed at him.

"Just take it easy at first," he said. "Don't inhale so hard." Joel kept trying and soon was taking the smoke in. He felt nauseous and giddy, but a sense of freedom seeped into his being. He felt good, his mother and her gin and tonics seemed a distant distraction from the real business of being in the bush, smoking purloined cigarettes and being a man.

"What are we going to do tomorrow?" he said.

"I thought we'd climb to the top of Pukehou, on the other side of the river. There's a lightning struck tree at the top. I've always wanted to carve my initials on it. It takes about two hours to get there. On the other side's a steep valley - they call it Talking Gulley because of the great echo."

"Sounds good. Sounds bloody good." Joel sipped on the tea and dragged on his cigarette. This was the life, he thought, this was the bloody life.

They sat until the deep country dark had a firm grip on the land and they could see the bright stars, scintillating and sparking in the jet black sky. It began to get cold and they decided to turn in. Joel was last into his sleeping bag, and he lay there, listening to the noise of possums in the trees and the rhythmic mutterings of the never ceasing river. At last, although he was a little cold, he faded into sleep.

*

On the Sunday afternoon, they were climbing the steep hill that stood sentinel over that area of bush, farm and river. Joel was almost done in, but the climb through the cool bush, with the warbling, percussive song of the Tuis for accompaniment, left him feeling exhilarated. He felt light and was experiencing a certain sense of recklessness.

The bush thinned and soon they stood atop Pukehou, a thousand feet high, the stark, lightning blasted, branchless tree, like the last tower of a fire scorched castle, looming above them, striking upward, into the crisp, blue spring sky.

"Look, way over there," Joel said. "To the West, you can see the ocean."

"Yeah, it's cool. I'm gonna carve my initials." Dan took out his sheath knife and went to work on the tree. Joel wandered to the opposite side of the peak where beyond lay the deep, bush clad ravine, Talking Gulley.

"Hello!" he called, cupping his hand to his mouth. The almost as loud echo boomed back – "Hello!"

"How the hell are you!" Joel shouted. "How the hell are you!" came back.

"It's a bloody good day!" The echo bounced back its agreement. Joel began to laugh. Something seemed to break within him, some deep inner well of emotion. He couldn't stop laughing.

"Hooray!" he shouted.

"Hooray!" the imperturbable bush called back.

"Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!"

"Jesus Christ," Dan said as he still worked on the tree. "They'll hear you all the way back to town with that racket." He paused for a moment and turned towards Joel. "You know ..." he said. "You seem pretty happy for a guy whose father only died six weeks ago."

Joel felt the words like a punch to his stomach. His intoxication vaporised and vanished. His neck, face and ears flushed. He suddenly felt small and ashamed. How could he be laughing so hard with his father shut up in his coffin under the cold dark ground? How could he blame his poor suffering mother?

Then a bright flash of anger ignited within him. What did Dan know about it? He hadn't lost his father. Joel tried to calm himself but a kind of despair tinged rage blossomed within him. He turned and walked quickly over to Dan and before Dan could react or protest Joel snatched the knife out of his hand.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dan said.

"You want to know how I feel?" Joel said through clenched teeth. "You want to know what it's like?" He took the knife in his right hand and held out his left arm. He slashed at his arm and the knife cut through the bush shirt and drew blood.

"You're bloody crazy!" Dan said and at the same instant he seized Joel's wrist and began to try to wrestle the knife from him. They stumbled about the hilltop locked into a mad, capering dance. Joel tried to cut himself again but Dan held onto his arm as they staggered round and round the burnt tree.

Neither of them said a word as they fought but Dan was bigger and heavier and finally he pushed Joel to the ground and the knife fell from his hand. Dan picked up the knife and stood there panting, staring down at Joel.

Joel lay there, his breathing rapid. He felt weak and humiliated, his wrist hurt where he had cut himself.

"Please don't tell your father," he said through laboured breaths. "If my mother finds out my life won't be worth living."

"Jesus Christ!" Dan said. "You scared the living daylights out of me."

"I'm all right now," Joel said. "Honestly, it was just a fit or something."

Dan put the knife into its sheath on his hip. "Let's have a look at your arm." Joel sat up and Dan pulled back the torn sleeve on Joel's shirt. "It's fine," he said. "It's just a scratch. It didn't go deep."

"Please promise me," Joel said. "That you won't tell your father. Let's just keep this between us, as friends."

"Jeez, I dunno ...."

"Really ... I'm all right now. Things just got on top of me ..."

Dan was silent for a moment and looked about him as if for guidance. Finally he spoke. "Well ... all right. But my dad's gonna see your shirt and your wrist."

"I'll just say I got caught on some blackberries. I'll wash my arm in the river."

"Okay. But are you sure you're going to be all right? When we get back I mean? When you get home?"

"Yeah ... I'll be right. It was just a bit of a melt down." Joel managed a smile. "I should thank you for stopping me." He got to his feet and dusted himself down. "Let's have a ciggie and forget about it."

"Yeah ... I could use one."

A few moments later they were dragging and puffing on the cigarettes almost as if nothing had happened and once they had stamped out their butts, they turned and began the descent of the hill, not a word spoken between them of what had just passed.

*

Late afternoon, they emerged from the bush and shoes in hand waded across the river, Joel pausing long enough to wash away any tell tale blood. A few minutes later the campsite appeared. Mr Frobish was waiting for them, standing by the still smoking fire and he did not look happy.

"Where the hell did you get to?" he said in an angry tone as they approached. "I told you five o'clock. It's five thirty and I've been waiting half an hour. You haven't packed anything down, your campsite's a mess. You didn't put the fire out and you haven't even done the dishes."

"I'm sorry dad," Dan said. "We've been up Pukehou, I didn't realise how long it would take us to get back."

"And why not? You've got a watch haven't you? And by the way, where did you get these?" He held out his hand, in it were half a dozen cigarette butts.

"They were mine," Dan said. "I bought them."

"Stole them from your mother more like. Honestly Dan ... couldn't you set a better example for Joel? Instead of leading him astray when you know that things ... well ... when he and his mother are going through such a difficult time. What happened to your shirt Joel?"

"I caught it on some blackberries. It scratched my arm a bit."

"I see," said Mr Frobish. "Anyway ... let's see you get this fire out and the tent packed down. One of you can rinse the dishes. Your mothers will be wondering where we are. Come on, look lively."

About half an hour later as they drove back to the town, Dan did the talking about how they had spent the weekend, omitting the fight to Joel's relief. Joel turned and looked back at Pukehou. A heavy grey cloud pressed down and obscured the peak. Joel thought the hill looked like a giant, and to him the giant was grief and he wielded a mighty club which was despair, and Joel somehow knew he would have to fight that giant every day from now on.

He turned and stared out the side window at the bush giving way to farmland. From the boot came the sound of a saucepan and knives and forks knocking together. To Joel it sounded like the clatter of ice on glass, like the rattle of bones, it sounded like a drum beat call to arms.

* * *
The Final Episode

Rachel is going to Paris! I can hardly believe it. How can she deny that there is a magnetic connection between her and Ross, as if they have no history, as if there is no ... well, no Ross and Rachel? I could hardly concentrate at work thinking about it.

Don't get me wrong, I believe people should follow their hearts, but I've always felt that Ross and Rachel should be together. I believe in destiny, and that's why I believe they're soul mates. Some things are meant to be. What happened was that she interviewed in a restaurant for another job but her boss was sitting behind her and overheard everything. So he fired her. But then later she got offered a job in Paris and it looks like she's going to go.

Why can't she see that Ross is really in love with her? That she's really still in love with him? It's like they're reaching out to each other across the ... the what? ... the ether ... the ether of emotional desert. Why can't they see? What if the series ends with them parted?

Then Ross will be like me, a single man in want of a wife, and indeed, in want of a fortune. Ha ha! Just a little humour there. I used to think I would love and be loved, that I had the capacity for a great romance, but now I'm not so sure. I'm twenty five and there's no-one special in my life. Between you and me, I'm beginning to think I'll die a bachelor. If only I could meet someone like Rachel. Someone intelligent, sweet natured but kind of feisty, someone who wants to make a long term commitment and wants to start a family.

But what I really like about Rachel is her determination, and the fact that she's like me, a natural communicator. I don't know that she'd find me attractive. I'm quite tall, I have dark hair parted in the middle and combed over my ears. My eyes are brown and my nose is a little too prominent. Maybe I'll get some work done on it sometime. I look ordinary, I guess. You know, the guy you see on the bus as it goes past. Your eyes inadvertently meet for a moment, but the bus passes before things can get awkward. Yeah, just average, that's me – good old Roy, Mr Average.

But I have a talent, the talent to communicate. But I wasn't always so loquacious, oh no. In fact I was quite shy as a kid. I never knew my real father or mother. I don't know anything about my father, but I know my mother gave me up to the Welfare - she was an alcoholic apparently. I went through a series of foster homes. They were ... how shall I put it? A bit harsh. It was hard to get close to people, especially when you got moved around a lot. I didn't have any brothers or sisters and not many friends. Except for Mickey Drumfield. We became friends in the fourth form, and all through the fifth. He was kind of shy too, at least that's what his mother said, and that he was just a little bit behind everyone else. I didn't really notice. We lost touch when his uncle gave him a plumbing apprenticeship up north and that was about when I left school anyway.

Since then I've moved around a variety of jobs, the longest one being for three years at a service station, sole charge, graveyard shift. I liked that job. I think because I'm a people person. I used to love chatting to someone when they came in at four a.m., looking for gas and hungry. Even if they were a bit drunk.

I've almost always lived alone. Except once, when I moved into a two bedroom place with Nathaniel. He was my closest friend for about a year. Then I woke up one morning and found him gone, along with the rent money, my stereo and TV. I never saw him again. I applied to a lot of other flatmate wanted ads, but I never got picked. But it's great living alone. You get to do everything your way, to watch what you like on TV.

I love TV. It's like the friend that never lets you down. The TV will never judge or reject you, and you can always find a smiling face, especially in the advertisements. Have a look sometime. The world in advertisements is always perfect and people are always smiling. Count the smiles during ad breaks, you'll be surprised.

But when I'm not watching TV, I love talking to people - that's why I shifted to telesales. I've only been with Satellite Systems for two months, but I already feel at home. There's something heart-warming about talking to people in their own homes, to being invited into their kitchens and living rooms, and offering them a great deal. Of course, I haven't signed anyone up yet, but it's early days. I love to really reach out and touch someone. I love to visualise the people I talk to. I imagine them going about their day, cooking their meals, maybe doing the dishes, watering the garden. Or maybe they just stepped out of the shower after a hard day's work, or just stepped into the shower when the phone goes! Oops, sorry! Ha ha. Those calls always make me laugh. There's that humour again!

But on a more serious note, I am truly worried about Ross and Rachel. Which way will it go? Oh well, we'll soon know, the final episode is coming up. I'd like to do something special for it, but what? I shall have to put my thinking cap on.

*

Today I had an eventful time at work - stressful I mean. I got this guy who seemed to be in a bad mood. I gave him the pitch and he said he wasn't interested, but there was some quality to his voice, a sort of ... melancholic sigh behind his words that made me want to reach out to him.

So I said: "If you don't mind me asking, is everything okay with you sir? You seem a little out of sorts?"

"Why the hell should you want to know," he said, and he sounded somewhat aggrieved, hurt maybe.

"We're all human," I said. "We're all in this together. Perhaps talking about it will help you. I'm a good listener."

"All you need to know mate is that I'm not interested in your satellite TV."

"Let's forget that for the moment. I sense there's something going on for you. You seem to be in some kind of pain. Are you sure you wouldn't like to share? Is there something that's upset you? Something I can help with?"

"Help with?" He gave a sort of choking laugh. "My wife died six weeks ago, but unless you know of a way to bring people back from the dead there's nothing you can help me with. So just so we're straight, I'm not interested in your service, I don't want to share, and I want you to leave me alone and to never call me again." Then the phone went dead.

Well! I was only trying to help! So between Rachel going to Paris and that poor man who lost his wife, I shall be very surprised if I get even an hour's sleep tonight. Anyway, tomorrow will be a better day, that's my motto.

*

I've decided what I'm going to do for the final episode which is next week. I shall have a party! I'll invite the whole gang from work. We'll have a few drinks, a few nibbles, some quality conversation, a sense of bonhomie, of camaraderie – it'll be great!

I only hope things don't go awry, that Rachel and Ross finally get together. It's like Phoebe says, it's like lobsters that mate for life. Rachel is Ross's lobster, don't you see? Then all will be well. Monica and Chandler will be together, and Phoebe will be with Mike, and Joey ... well, Joey's not the marrying kind, is he? No one woman can tame him. But he'll be all right, he still has his acting career so I'm not too worried about him.

But I am worried about the guy who lost his wife. I'm not allowed to reveal customers' names, so I'll just call him Stan. He was on my mind all day. But what to do? I imagine him as standing on a vast plain, with a crying wind, cold and inimical, blowing all around him. The sound of some wild animal, its distant howl carried on the air, darkness falling like a funeral veil. He's so alone - if only he would talk to me, if only he would reach out. It's like that song, the Sounds of Silence: "Hear my words that I might teach you, take my arms that I might reach you ..." If only Stan would take my arms, hear my words. Oh well, tomorrow we'll see. Here's to tomorrow!

*

What a day! I put the notice up, put little flyers in everyone's pigeon hole and an email to all. Party at my place for the final episode! Come one, come all! I can't wait. If Ross and Rachel get together, it will be a magic moment, and if it goes the other way, if she goes to France, at least the whole gang will be there around me. So it's either celebration or commiseration. We'll soon see.

But the other thing that happened at work has got me at sixes and sevens. You see, I am worried about the Ross-Rachel-Paris thing, but all through my shift I couldn't help thinking about Stan – thinking about how alone he was out there in the deep cold night. So I rang him. I'm not sure he was in the mood to talk, but I wanted to let him know I sympathised, that there was another soul who stood beside him in that never-ending dark. It went a bit this way:

"I hope you don't mind Stan," I said after I'd identified myself. "But I couldn't get you off my mind and I thought I'd ring to let you know I empathised with your loss. To let you know you're not alone, to let you share."

"I told you last night I'm not interested in your TV deals."

"I know. I just called to offer my condolences, to offer some support. Wouldn't you feel better if you talked about it?"

"I'm not so hard up I need to talk to some nosey salesman. I'm warning you, you'd better leave me alone. Don't call this number again, or else ... understand?"

"I understand you're in pain Stan. I understand pain, I - " But that was as far as I got. He hung up again.

Sad isn't it? How he can't see what he needs, that he needs to connect, he needs a friend. If only he would let me help him. Oh well ... perhaps I'll try him again tomorrow, when he's had time to think. Remember, tomorrow will be a better day!

*

Today was not a good day. Today my love and faith in humanity was shaken. I got fired.

Apparently, Stan got hold of my manager and told him I was making a nuisance of myself. That I was harassing him. Can you believe that? I offered him compassion and he called it harassment.

Anyway, my boss said I'd broken company policy and seeing as I hadn't signed anyone up since I'd started, they were going to let me go. So that was that. I got my bits and pieces together and left the office for the last time. I'm not even sure what I did for the rest of the day. I just wandered the streets and came home at the usual time. What am I going to do? Where do I go from here? What about the money?

Oh well ... at least the final episode is coming up and I've decided I'm still going to have the party. I'll even let my ex-manager come. I don't bear a grudge. I don't even blame Stan, he's just lashing out because he's in pain. If only he had let me help him, help him to see that he's not alone. Anyway ... tomorrow will be ... what will tomorrow be?

*

At last the day has come. The week's gone and it's the final episode tonight. I've been rushing round all day getting ready for the party. I hired some chairs and they delivered them about four o'clock. I have onion and avocado dips and bags and bags of potato chips. I went to the bottle store and bought a dozen beer and two bottles of Jacob's Creek – you can never go wrong with a quality red wine. I did the vacuuming, the dusting, put things away in the cupboards. Checked the TV and video were working all right, I'm sure they can be trusted. I'm all set.

Of course I probably shouldn't have spent quite so much on the party - I've only got six hundred and forty six dollars in the bank – anyway, tonight will be a good night and that's all I'm worried about for the moment. I'm going to call Satellite Systems now and see how many of them are coming. I can't wait!

*

Well, it's all over. Can you guess what happened? If you said: "a dream come true", you'd be right! It was so beautiful, so right ... if only life could imitate art.

Rachel did take the Paris job and left to catch her plane. But Ross decided to fight for her one last time, thank goodness, so Phoebe drove him to the airport, to JFK, but it turned out Rachel was actually leaving from Newark. I nearly died then. But they made another mad dash across New York and got to the airport just as Rachel was boarding the plane. Ross told her he loved her, but she got on the plane anyway! My heart was in my mouth.

I thought all was lost but when Ross got back to his apartment there was a message from Rachel on his answering machine. She was telling him she loved him too, and trying to get off the plane and Ross was shouting at the machine: "Did she get off the plane? Did she get off the plane?", and just at that moment, she appeared at his door. She got off the plane! Thank God.

So Ross and Rachel got together – two happy lobsters. So they're all right. Monica and Chandler are okay, and Phoebe and Mike are fine. And Joey? Well, we shouldn't worry too much about Joey. He's like me, he's a natural communicator. He's off to L.A. where he can really give the acting a go. I admit I was crying at the last scene. I felt so close to the six of them, felt I could reach right through the screen and embrace them all. But that's the end! What will I do next week?

Oh, and in case you're wondering, no-one from Satellite Systems came. I phoned them in the afternoon and talked to Trevor. He said they had been told not to take any calls from me and that he had to go. So I said just tell me quickly how many of you are coming, but he hung up without answering. So I don't know ... anyway, it's their loss.

So there we are. The final episode over, my job gone – but I'm not going to get depressed. It's a new beginning, a chance to start a better life. In fact, I've thought of the perfect job for myself. A counsellor. That's what I need to do, to reach out and touch someone, to make a difference, to have mattered in some small way. So I'm not afraid, I'm optimistic, I'm almost happy. And tomorrow will be, a better day.

* * *
Out Of Touch

The sky that morning was the colour of ruby, the clouds deep stained, as if they were laden with the weight of retribution, poised to rain red upon our multitude of sins, scourge the earth with scarlet drops, hot blood gurgling down gutters, spilling and filling drains, rivers, lakes and whole oceans.

I saw the sky at dawn. I'd woken about half an hour before from some dream I was travelling in, one of those dreams where, when you wake up and open your eyes to the darkness of the room, you have the sensation that you're in some past place where you dreamt other dreams. The wall seems to be in the wrong place, the door wasn't over there - it takes a few moments to realise the present, where you really are and how you got there. That dream - I only remember a fragment, hands reaching out, seeking contact. I sometimes think if I could remember that dream, all of it, I'd have an explanation ... maybe.

I lay there as the first faint strokes of morning began to paint the outlines of the room. I couldn't get back to sleep, not really. The sounds of the world kept hauling me back across that soft membrane between dreaming and wakefulness, the wind whispering through the pine trees at the bottom of the garden, the branches creaking like old voices, muttering. The sound of the sea, only about ten minutes walk away, like the murmuring of some distant crowd, rising and falling.

The song of the first thrush intermingling with the next door neighbour's wind chimes, liquid, inviting, a melodic conversation where meaning seemed almost within grasp. And once, the flutter of a bird's wings, close to the window, that half awake, made me think of a vivid, multi-hued flag rippling in the wind above the heads of a great throng gathered in celebration that I once stood amongst, of long ago laughter and dim remembered days.

I began to roam through hallways of memory and ended up thinking about an unhappy romance I'd had as a young man, I don't know why, it was over forty years ago. It had been so intense at the time, I wondered if I was still capable of such vehemence, passion, pain. I wondered why we had to have so many attempts at love, so many rehearsals, so many contrived scenes, so many ... dislocations.

With Katrina it was the real thing of course, the solid, undoubting certainty. She's been gone now for fifteen years - half as long as we were together, imagine that. I won't say how she died. Suffice to say it was rather a long journey, arduous - so many humiliations are possible, you'd be surprised. We think we walk one step behind the gods with our artifice and ingenuity, but in the end we're really rather fragile, replaceable.

I think of Katrina pretty much every day, sometimes I wonder what she'd look like now, what we'd be doing. Sometimes I dream of her. The dreams are bright, sharp, almost as if, when I wake up, if I turned over, she'd be there beside me, her breathing soft, her face innocent and calm. Then there are other days, well ... I'm not sure how to explain it. I remember her, but I can't always remember what she looked like. Not exactly. I used to wonder if it was just my age, just the natural passage of time, or if it was something more, like in the old days when you had a bad phone line and people's voices would fade in and out, eventually overcome by the hiss of static, as if some crackling mist had engulfed them, hidden them from view.

So I was lying there turning over memories in my mind - trying to find ones that had no pain attached - when I realised I wasn't going to get any more sleep. I got up and sat on the edge of the bed for a minute. It was early Spring so I wasn't particularly cold. I went to the bathroom and then to the kitchen to get a drink of water. It was then I saw the sky, out of the kitchen window, the sun not quite risen over the eastern hills, the clouds ruddy, sombre, even sullen. I stood and watched as the sky began to lighten, sipping on the water, listening to the birds singing and ringing in the new day, their question and answer cascade in the still dawn air like some complex, unfathomable piano sonata. I thought it would probably rain. I was planning to get into the garden later that afternoon but I guessed it would be bucketing down by then.

I went back into the bathroom to repair the ravages of sleep - the wash, the shave, the comb of what was left of my once brown hair. Then into the bedroom to get dressed - an old pair of faded cords, a thick green coarse wool jersey, brown socks and faded red checked slippers. I thought I could see in the bedroom mirror a remnant of the young man who used to roam the world with so many questions. I like to think I've acquired some sort of wisdom over the years, but I have found that I also have more questions, and the questions seem to grow bigger upon each asking.

So there I was, framed by the glass, a squarish face, thick eyebrows flecked with grey, eyes that were still alert, interested, a slightly thin mouth that had done its fair share of smiling and a still prominent jaw with the dimple Katrina used to like. Lines of course, lots of lines, as if each hurt and fear had to be etched into your skin as you slept, a tattoo of experience. I considered I had done the best I could and went into the kitchen for breakfast.

I put on the radio and the little house filled with sweet violins, serious cellos and the lament and resignation of French horns. I set about poaching two eggs and put on two pieces of toast. Then I set the kettle to boil - "put the billy on" as Katrina always used to say when we came in off the beach after our late Sunday afternoon stroll, at least, she did say it for a number of years, towards the end it was me who said it. "Shall I put the billy on?" She would smile and say, all right, but it was not the same as when she stood there with wind tossed wisps of hair scattering out from under her scarf, her cheeks fresh flushed with the rich sea air, a sense of energy, of zest for living underpinning her command - "put the billy on."

Sometimes, she wouldn't even come for a walk. She would say - "You go, I'm just going to put my feet up with a book." And then I wouldn't want to go, not by myself, because I knew that it was not that she didn't want to go for a walk, she wanted to be alone, to separate, at least for that moment. I don't know, perhaps it had become too much of a ritual, but as I set off on my own, I would always feel that I had been a young man again at a Saturday night ball, asking the young woman he had admired all night if she would like to dance, and she had looked up with eyes and a smile that already said no, and replied that she would decline owing to being overly tired by the evening's entertainment.

I was thinking about those walks as I finished off the eggs and took the plate to the sink to rinse it - how we could go for miles without saying a word to one another, as if in tacit understanding, or perhaps, as I thought of it now, because we had nothing to say, or no reason to say it. I put the plate aside and began making the tea, a pot of tea, not teabags. "You stew the tea Frank," she would say. "We're not camping out in the bush you know." I would say to her, why didn't she pour her cup first and I would pour mine later, but no, that wasn't good enough. "There's nothing wrong with teabags," she would say. "Then I can have it just the way I like it." But it wasn't the same, there was something ... communal, about making a pot of tea, like the saying, like a little fireside chant, "one teaspoon for each person, one for the pot."

I poured my tea, I preferred to think of it as strong, not stewed, and sat back down at the table, sipping it and listening to the radio. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just after the hour. It was at that moment I had a feeling that was hard to define, something akin to that moment when you drive away from the house and you suddenly wonder if you've actually turned the stove off. You can remember doing it, but you can't decide whether you're remembering it from when you did it yesterday, or if you'd in fact just done it. It was the sensation of weighing up as you continued driving whether you should turn back and check, a niggle, an uncertainty.

As I sat drinking the tea, I began to realise what it was that had disturbed me. The news had not come on the radio. I always listened to the news. It gave me a sense of involvement, as if, by thinking about what was reported, by forming opinions on events, I was somehow participating, that I was being consulted in some way, addressed, acknowledged. That I was involved. Now it all seems much of a muchness. I still listened and watched the bulletins on TV, but the people they spoke of and showed - it wasn't so much what they were doing, but about what they were doing _to_ one another. People would appear for two or three minutes at the most, for something that seemed to warrant public attention, and then they were gone. In the past I would think of the lives that preceded their step into the camera flashes that flickered about their heads like bolts of divulging lightning, think about all that had led up to their visage appearing in my living room. But now? Now they seemed almost spectral, I could not imagine them living beyond their brief one sentence sound bite bursts.

I ran through the various possibilities of why the news had not been on. Problems at the studio? Strike perhaps? Even, no news? Not very likely. I thought of each scenario in an offhand way, I could always catch the next bulletin and I had to plan my day. I decided on the spur of the moment to go for a walk on the beach, in case it did rain later. I told myself I should really get into the garden first, but the thought of the cool salt air, the waves rolling in, the big sky, was tempting. I put on my raincoat, still convinced it was going to rain, and set off.

On the right hand side of my property leading down to the beach is a large, many windowed house, designed to catch the sun. I speak on occasion to its owners, a young lawyer and his wife, a fashion designer, both on the up and up in the city I believe. We sometimes meet down at the letterbox and exchange pleasantries, such as - "it's turned out a beautiful day, hasn't it?", or; "is it cold enough for you?" We did communicate at length on one instance when we had to resolve a problem with a fallen tree that had straddled both properties. They have a dog, a small terrier that makes up for its size with its vociferous barking. It had the run of their backyard, and though I had walked past it down to the beach almost every day for ten years, it never failed to challenge me with an insistent yelping. Except on this day it did not appear to be about, all was quiet as I made my way across the back garden. I looked towards the house in case I might catch sight of the beast through the hedge. It occurred to me it was not a young dog and something may have happened, but beyond that, I did not give the matter much thought.

The walk on the beach was pleasant enough, my coat kept out most of the brisk westerly, but when I returned home I felt cold enough to sit by the heater for an hour to warm myself up. The beach had been deserted, which was actually quite pleasant. It gets rather busy in the summer, with the insect hum of jet-skis that skim along with their wet-suited drivers, speedboats, sailboats, dogs chasing seagulls into the shallows - though I had never seen a dog catch one - footprints criss-crossing one another across broken shells and broken glass, red crushed cans, blue and orange food packets, the leftovers, the gnawed plastic bones discarded to the endless efforts of sea and sand. I had expected to see a middle-aged woman who walks the beach at that time, her hands filled with interesting driftwood and the occasional unusual shell. I would pass her, and feel a sense of complicity, as if, in that moment, the beach, the whole sea and the sky, were ours and ours alone. She was not about and I supposed it was too windy for her.

After warming up I put on some lunch - a baked potato stuffed with cheddar cheese and sprinkled with ground pepper - a dish Katrina and I used to share on cold winter days, although, once again, in later years, if I suggested it, she would say - "I think I'll just have cheese on toast, or perhaps some soup and a roll, but you have that." So I would cook mine and she would make hers. It seemed to me somewhat peevish on her part, as if she felt a need to demarcate, distance and divide. Anyway, another cup of tea or two later after my meal and I was ready for the garden.

I worked steadily, mostly weeding, a little trimming and pruning, I kept tilting my head back and looking at the sky which was overcast, the clouds hanging above me like thick grey blankets filled with heavy stones, ready to burst. But still it did not rain. I passed the entire afternoon absorbed in my task and it was late in the day when I went back inside and began to prepare dinner - a sort of simple chicken and rice thing I sometimes make - and I settled down with it upon a tray to watch the evening news. Except, once again, there was no news. It never came on. I thought then there must be some kind of strike, but I watched what was on anyway, an old sitcom form more than a decade before - it was mildly amusing. I did the dishes and sat back down in front of the TV for a few more hours, but it was somewhat dissatisfying. It's all so two dimensional, so ... one way. I sometimes feel that if I could stand up in the middle of the programme and shout - "No! You're wrong about that!", there might be some point.

I switched off the TV and got myself to bed early, reading for about half an hour before putting out the bedside lamp. I woke in the early hours of the morning with the rattle of rain on the roof, heavy, damning, like a thousand hammers building some great tower that reached up into the night. I slept fitfully through the early morning hours, dreaming again of hands, millions of hands, reaching across the world.

*

The next day I went to the grocery as usual and never saw a soul. The shop was open, but there was nobody about. I went home again without making a purchase and it was somewhat eerie on that short walk - no lawnmowers, no distant muffled voices from inside houses, no car doors slamming and motors starting, no whirr of skill saws at work in garages - only the calling of the birds and the sigh of the breeze through the power lines. I thought it might be some impending disaster, a flood perhaps - though the day had dawned clear, or a tsunami - but there was nothing on the radio, only music, not even an announcer, and once again, no news.

By midday I decided I had better find out what was going on. I called the Civil Defence number but got entangled with one of those pre-recorded things that directs you to various departments, went round in circles for a while, listening to the disembodied voice with its polite and scratchy tone. In the end I dialled the emergency number \- nothing, just the trill of the phone ringing, unanswered, like a distant bell in some ruined church, tolled by the hand of the indifferent wind.

I went next door to see if they knew anything, but they were not at home. I circled the house and called out once or twice, but even the dog was gone. By late afternoon I was becoming quite concerned - there had, I thought, obviously been some kind of evacuation and I had been missed. I sat close to the radio, and put the TV on with the sound down, giving them my total attention, but the music and TV programmes played on as always, except there were no announcers and no announcements.

Towards sunset I set off on a walk around the immediate neighbourhood and was even so bold as to shout out occasionally as I went, but as far as I could tell, the town was deserted. By the time I got ready for bed that night, I had been through many possibilities of what may have occurred. I could not perceive any immediate danger, the sea was calm, the sky now clear, the ground did not tremble, so I resolved to make the effort the next day of getting the car out of the garage and exploring the town fully - if things were not set to rights by then - and possibly even journeying to the next town along the highway to solve the mystery. I did not dream of hands - I dreamed of jostling through a vast, completely silent multitude. I was looking for someone, but every time I thought I had found them it turned out to be a stranger.

*

That was all some time ago. I have lost track of the exact date. I have spent many an evening considering various explanations for the phenomenon, I even got books out of the library on a variety of subjects - supernatural occurrences, the mysteries of physics, things of that nature, but what I learned there did not illuminate the enigma. I drove into the city - along lifeless asphalt roads - and spent several days exploring. I made phone calls to everyone I knew, called random numbers across the country, called every authority I could think of, but there was never any answer.

At one point I got hold of some short-wave radio equipment - it pleasantly occupied my mind setting up the large aerial - and I read a manual on how to operate it. I spent hour upon hour hunched over the controls, a thin voice beaming out across the ether to a silent world. Then I would listen, my head inclined, alert, but all I ever heard was static, like the sound of a great throng of people, all talking at once, but within which no single word could be discerned. I even thought once I would read up on how to sail, take a boat and journey to the nearest country, search the whole globe if necessary. It all seemed rather pointless after a time, and anyway, by then I had begun to believe I had formulated some kind of idea of what had actually happened.

Everything was much the same - I'd noticed it in the first few days, perhaps I did not want to believe it, I don't know - but if I went to the shop and took some item, perhaps a can of tomato soup, or a loaf of kibbled wheat bread and left the money on the counter, the next day those items would have been replaced on the shelf and the money gone. The lights and heaters still worked, the radio still played music, the TV showed sitcoms and dramas, the gas pumps still functioned, the garden bloomed and faded and bloomed again, the world continued to turn.

What I have begun to believe, in the light of this situation, is that they are, in fact, all still here - each and every living, breathing, struggling soul. It is simply that, I cannot see them, and they cannot see me. You see, we're all on different wavelengths somehow, there is no connection, it's just that we're all ... out of touch. We can no longer hear one another, see another's smile, or feel another's warm clasped hand.

At least, that is my current theory. Perhaps as the years go by I will think of others, perhaps I will dedicate myself to researching and writing down each possibility. For now, most days, I'm content to sit inside by the heater with a strong cup of tea, or to potter about in the garden and listen to the birds. I remember good times and good days, I think of Katrina and the warmth of her laugh, and sometimes, when I am somewhat abstracted, I have thought I heard her calling my name on the wind, distant, caring, like a gentle summoning to some great ethereal gathering.

* * *
Barry's Big Move

Celia put an end to a year and a half of wine, dining, sunset walks on sand blown beaches and Sunday afternoons at the movies with the simplicity of a text message.

Barry thought he understood. She had to be free to find her soul mate, she was looking for a lover and not just a companion, she was forty six and could not afford to be bored – life was too short to be with the wrong person.

It was not a complete surprise. She had been slipping away for quite some time now, making sturdy wings upon which to escape with every little frown of disapproval at something Barry did, a little micro-expression of contempt, a slightly curled lip at something Barry had said. The withheld hug, the vagueness of plans, the tension in the touch – all fine tipped feathers to lift her to freedom and all she had to do was type goodbye, press send, raise up her arms and fly.

How could he blame her? He was almost forty seven, no great catch. An unassuming man, large streaks of grey through his sideburns and at his temples, tall but with a slight paunch, owner of a second-hand Subaru, an ageing weather-board two-bedroom house and with only one real male friend left, Stuart, all full beard and rumpled suit Stu – Stu and Barry in the downstairs bar of the Romney Arms on a Friday afternoon after the text message.

"You're probably better off without her," Stu said between sips. "If it was meant to be she wouldn't have bailed would she? What you need is a break from the routine, all those things that remind you of her. A holiday, mate, that's what you need."

Not long after, he had read in the local paper a feature on the theatre district of London. He had been in the tearoom with Miranda and he started talking about how he regretted he had never done his 'Overseas Experience,' the 'Big O.E' and how much he'd like to see England.

"You should go," Miranda said. Vivacious, late twenties, she had long black hair with a fringe, soft brown eyes and athletic figure. "I was there four years ago. Spent two years in London and it was fabulous. It was so cosmopolitan then and it's even more so these days. If only I wasn't settling down." She raised up her ringed finger and waved it around.

As she spoke, Barry cursed his staid twenties and thirties, cursed his insecurities, cursed the fact that he had never gone overseas but had instead concentrated on his studies and career, had always played it safe. He wanted to be Miranda's equal, wanted her to see something in him, wanted her admiration, wanted a touch of grace from beauty.

The next day he told her he was going.

"I'll probably look into a few job possibilities when I'm there," he said casually, regretting his words immediately as he spoke. "I mean, I might as well. Can't stay stuck in the same rut forever."

The next day it was all over the office. People began wishing him luck in his job search. Several of them seemed delighted that he was about to venture into the unknown. Even the boss, a man who at best only spoke to him when necessary, at the end of that week had a word to say.

"I'll keep the job open for as long as I can Barry. No promises mind. Just let me know how you get on. I think you're bloody brave the way things are. I wish I had the gumption to get up and go. Best of luck anyway."

In fact, everyone had been so enthusiastic about Barry leaving that he had begun to believe it himself. He emailed half a dozen employers he looked up on Linkedin and two of them responded, so when Miranda asked him how his plans were going he went so far as to tell her he had two interviews lined up. And anyway, he told himself, it wouldn't hurt to have a chat to them. Perhaps he would make the move after all.

What was there to keep him in New Zealand anyway? The job in administration had never been his first choice, but it did pay his bills and put a roof over his head. Then there was the house, which would be all his in a few years. But what else was there to his existence? He saw it was a quiet life.

His father had died when he was twenty eight, his mother had followed some ten years ago. But he did have a sister down south whom he visited every summer. Then there were after work drinks on a Friday night with Stu or his work colleagues, which were enjoyable as long as that pain Brandfield and his cohorts from HR weren't in attendance. All in all it was bearable, but was that all you could ask from life?

In the end he painted himself into a corner. If he changed his mind he would look like a coward, if he went he had the stress and cost of the trip. Finally, he decided Stu was right, he needed a change and he did not wish to look craven to the beautiful Miranda, even though she was spoken for.

So it was a few weeks later he disembarked at Gatwick Airport, caught the train into central London and found himself at Victoria Station, vast and ant-hill busy. He felt a little uneasy in the melee, the other people around him moving swiftly and with purpose. He eventually found his way out to the taxi ranks and was delighted to see his first 'black cab'.

In the back of the taxi, the city, a thousand years in the making, slipped and rushed past Barry's eyes. The buildings were stone and grey, some with rounded roofs and the lights that scattered all around seemed to be composed of new colours, new intensities, all was a fascinating whirl of surprising design and construction that seemed to mock him a little with its solidity and awareness of its own elongated history.

The hotel was just off Oxford Street and Barry sensed his centrality, his arrival at the nexus of a great continuum. In the foyer he was a little startled at how small the hotel seemed compared to the photographs in the brochure. The room was also small. He sat on the bed for a moment and observed the floral patterned wallpaper, caught the scent of dreams that had been dreamt in the room by hundreds, perhaps thousands. The air was musty like the pages of an old second-hand book. But Barry congratulated himself. He was really here. In the heart of London. Barry felt that he was sitting at the centre of the world.

*

Later that night he was in his pyjamas, teeth cleaned and flossed and ready for bed at eleven p.m. - the jet lag confusing his senses so he was at once tired but also with the sensation that he should be getting about doing things. He switched off the light and drew back the curtain of the window.

For a moment he was surprised at what he saw, as if outside should be his garden with the agapanthus and well groomed roses. Instead a large, chrome ornamented car went by, the streetlights slipping across its roof as if someone was painting swift lines of silver with a liquid brush. Directly across from him was an upmarket clothing store. In the window, expensive designs were draped across impossibly thin mannequins with unblemished plastic skin, their cold red lips pouting into the night. Barry peered at the doorway of the shop. There was something there. An old sack perhaps, and a pair of shoes, a rubbish bag? Was it someone curled up, asleep? He closed the curtains and got into bed, feeling the white sensation of starch upon his skin. He felt the weariness of the journey soften him, mould him into the bed, and he drifted off with a little sensation of triumph that he had indeed arrived.

*

The next morning he walked on to Oxford Street with his iPhone map to guide him and he began to absorb the atmosphere, watching the red, soot-streaked double-decker buses and reading the street signs as if they were novelty instructions on how to behave in a foreign place. When the buildings opened their spillways at lunchtime, Barry felt his insignificance. He looked down that long road and saw a million lives at once, each with their partners, family, friends, laughter, tastes, ambitions, secrets, pasts and possible futures.

It was almost a relief to descend into the Underground where the air had a faint, acrid, burnt odour, and people lined up in silent reveries along the platform as if awaiting some judgement. The Tube train burst from the black maw of tunnel with a belch of stale air, its sinuous length rumbling into the station with a sound like dark drums and the crack and green-white flash of sparks from its wheels. Barry got on, the doors hissed closed and the train slouched off. Outside the grimy windows all was a black rush.

At his station, he got off and made his way outside. He checked his map and worked out his route to the museum. He set off, but as he thought about his timetable, he chastised himself for having spent so much of the morning wandering Oxford Street when it perhaps would have been better to have gone straight to the museum. At that moment he passed a narrow street on his right, more of an alleyway. He looked down the alley and at its end felt sure he could just make out the columned entrance of the museum. He scrutinized his map. The alleyway did not appear as far as he could tell, but he was satisfied that his goal was visible at its furthest reaches, and he set off, confident it was a shortcut.

The alley was surprisingly dark, he found he could almost not see, his eyes slowly adjusting. The air had a cool, damp touch, a scent of rotten fruit or mouldy paper. There was a great deal of clutter, rusted dumpster bins were scattered along its length, their contents spilling out onto the ground.

Barry walked on into the twilight atmosphere, his feet avoiding black polythene rubbish bags piled up, some with their stomachs slit and spilling out their green tinged orange peel and grease covered hamburger carton entrails. Barry was nearly at the end of the alley when his foot struck against something. He stumbled and fell, knocking some of the wind out of him. At first he thought his fall had been broken by one of the rubbish bags, but then he saw it was something else. It was a mannequin of some sort, no, it was ... yes it was, it was a person. Asleep? Drunk? No ... they were ... Jesus Christ - they were dead!

It was what appeared to be a young, homeless man, draped in a shabby, ash-coloured coat, as grimy as the alley, as dull as the light. For some reason Barry stared at the man's nails, blackened and broken. Then Barry saw his face - thin, with a mottled, lacklustre sheen to the skin, like pale clay. But the eyes alarmed Barry. They were wide open and staring, as black as the space between stars.

Barry looked from one end of the alley to the other. What to do? Should he call out? But was the young man really dead? What was it they taught him in first aid back at High School? Airways, Breathing, Circulation? But he could not bring himself to get close to the young man again. Besides, it was obvious he was dead. Had been for a while it seemed to Barry. Then what should he do? What were you supposed to do?

He should notify the Police of course. The young man probably had family who were worried about him. Yes, that was it. Go to the Police. But even as he thought it, he could see it would be a burden. Giving statements, explaining several times what he was doing in the alley. A walk down a labyrinth of bureaucracy, with no string to guide him out. It might burn up his holiday, he might have to testify to the coroner or something. Oh really, it was an imposition, and all he wanted was a new beginning. He did not want to be involved with this young man's choices. He did not want to connect. He just wanted to forget Celia. After all, if he did report it, the young man would be no less dead.

He could not say at what moment, or exactly why he made his decision, but there was something in the rank air of that alley that made him want to shrug off responsibility, to abandon societal expectation. Who was to know?

He turned and began to walk out of the alley. After all, someone would find the poor sod in the next couple of days, probably within hours. Condemning himself and rationalising his actions at the same time, he walked towards the sharp spring sunshine and the vigour of life in the living streets.

*

Later in the week, Barry phoned the two companies who had replied to his employment queries but only one of the managers seemed to remember his email.

"In the old days there might have been room for you," the man told him. "Back then you paid a fortune for an ad in the Guardian and you were lucky if you got three or four replies from people who weren't really qualified. Nowadays, I get a hundred and fifty replies, some of them from people who have been managers themselves. So I'm sorry old chap, but there's nothing doing."

Barry thanked him for his time and said it was a shame, but deep within he felt relieved and decided to just get on with the holiday.

He went to the museums, the art galleries, the theatre in the West End, to musicals, the opera at Covent Garden. He went to Regent's Park, Hyde Park, Kew Gardens, he hired a car and travelled the B roads. He went to Scotland and met a New Zealand couple in Edinburgh and spent two days exploring the city with them. He went to Stonehenge and was surprised at how small the stones seemed, how like simple stacked rocks when stripped of mist and moonlight and deep red sunsets. He drove the wide motorways and listened to BBC Four, "absorbing the culture," as he thought of it. At the end of a month he was back in the hotel in London, his flight leaving the next morning.

He lay once more in the cool white of the hotel bed and convinced himself he had enjoyed the holiday of a lifetime. He gazed up at the ceiling and thought back on his trip, slipping eventually into a restless sleep. He woke suddenly about two hours later from a bright dream, feeling anxious. For a moment he was not sure where he was, which was the room and which was the dream, a dream of falling to where there was no ground, no end. Then he saw a young man's face, but it was not so much the face, it was the eyes he remembered, eyes full of the darkness of the world, and Barry felt something akin to shame.

*

Back in New Zealand, after a couple of days to get over the jet lag, he went back to work. His colleagues seemed at once unsurprised and disappointed to see him. When Brandfield accosted him in the tearoom with a smug smile, Barry just told the tale of what the employer he had approached had said, about the downturn and the one hundred and fifty applications. He told everyone the same thing and it seemed to satisfy them. When he saw Miranda again, he wondered why he had felt the need to impress her, she seemed almost ordinary. The boss just asked if he had enjoyed himself and seemed to have forgotten that there was the possibility Barry might leave permanently. He told no-one about his encounter in the alley.

Two months later, life had become routine again, and winter had fully draped its cold cloak over the whole country. After a slow week at work and a rainy Friday night at the pub amidst low talk and the taste of cold beer, he took a taxi home. He looked out the car window, somewhat numb from the beer. He saw a bearded man in a sleeping bag, in a shop doorway. The eyes of the man met his for a second as he slipped past.

Finally home, he laid a fire in the grate. With the sound of a cutting rain driving into the roof, and a rasping wind testing the latches and locks of the house, he sat in his armchair and gazed at figures dancing in the fire. Half formed creatures that writhed into existence in heat and flame and were gone, and just for a moment, he thought he saw a pair of dark eyes that spoke of the frailty of life, and then the eyes were gone and he felt glad to be alive.

* * *
The Daffodils

Jean checked her schedule. Drive downtown, drop off the dry-cleaning, pay the rates, go to the money machine, go round to the flat, throw Beatrice out, then Pak and Save ... but, she thought, she might as well get the sirloin from Reggie's. She'd probably get a better cut from the local butcher's and Norm was getting quite particular these days, he wanted it lean or not at all it seemed.

She went into the bathroom and checked herself in the mirror. Hair the hue of rusted leaves in autumn, grey smoke at the temples. The eyes large and hazel with long eyelashes – plenty of makeup, eyeliner, mascara, a bit much foundation perhaps. The mouth with lines beginning to radiate from the corners, as if she had eaten one too many lemons somewhere along the line. A kind of downward lean of the whole visage, the mouth, the corners of the eyes, revealing an expression that was resigned yet passive, as if still wondering why.

Satisfied with her appearance she began to move around the house collecting handbag, car keys, jacket, the dry cleaning. She felt the sense of pride she always felt as she moved from room to room in the spacious four-bedroom home. It was solid, it was stylish, it was theirs. It seemed like a certainty that had arrived in her life after coming from a distant place, where there were no moorings, no anchors, no surety of shelter from the storm. Years it had taken them, years of struggle and toil, the concrete of the foundations mixed with sweat and tears. But now it was standing there, day after day, against the spiteful southerlies and the angry drumming of the rain. They had already drawn up plans for an extension – a sun room, where Jean saw herself on Spring mornings, upon a pink pastel sofa, coffee cup in hand, magazine, the sun like a warm bath of light, lulling, relaxing, kind.

Once she had everything, she went through the front door and turned the key in the heavy double lock. She went down the path and ran an appraising eye across the red of the roses and the soft purple agapanthus. She stopped at the garage and looked back at the house. It was a nice place. All their friends said so. It seemed to say 'success', it seemed to say to her, 'well done'. She could see again Norm bending his back, the swing of the hammer, hear the pock, pock, of every nail, the concrete mixer grinding as if in constant complaint, and before that, the section so wild and ragged. She could feel again the cool wood of the slasher, the jar as it bit into lupin and gorse, the dust in the air, the sweat and the flies, and sweet tea made with condensed milk from the thermos in plastic cups.

She got into the late model sedan and started the motor, letting it warm up a little the way Norm told her to before she set off. Eighteen years the house had now stood, and the garden was elegant and prim, it would never revert to its wild ways under Jean's hands, every Saturday afternoon.

"You should be in House and Garden with those thumbs," Norm had said to her when the garden first came into bloom. Well, she didn't know about that, but it pleased her eye on a Spring morning to see the delicate sweet pea and the lordly roses, nodding in the sun. She had once had a small collection of pressed wild flowers, oh so long ago. She remembered it now – a small thing of beauty surrounded by shadows.

She backed out the drive and set off for the shopping centre. Anyway, the house was a good investment. Soon it would be worth twice what it had cost them. But it had taken many years. She thought back to their first flat together, the mould patches underneath the kitchen sink, the windows that never quite closed properly, the scuffed and forlorn industrial carpet ... But Norm was ambitious, he went out on his own and set up a building firm – she used to have dreams about the money they had borrowed. Over the years the business grew little by little, with each new project they took a small step forward. Then the two boys came along and times were tough again. But they made do. The boys sharing a bedroom in the old rented weather beaten house, the cupboards filled with preserving jars, the late nights making clothes, patching, stitching, mending, her learning how to do the accounts, the bookwork, please and appease the clients. No holidays, a dozen different ways to cook with mince, wearing her jerseys till the holes in the elbows couldn't be darned anymore. She wished the boys could have had more, but for them all to arrive at that harbour things had to be the way they were. And now they were both out in the world, well brought up, confident, self-sufficient, and there would be plenty to pass on to them when the time came. No, when Jean thought about it, no-one could say they had short changed them.

It was true some months Norm still worked twelve hour days, six days a week, but his work was him, there was no difference Jean often thought. She worried about it sometimes, what would happen if he couldn't work for some reason – it would kill him, she was sure it would. And now he had taken on the two flats as well, assuring her they were a good investment, tried and true against the vagaries of market fluctuations.

"If the banks go up in flames the houses'll still bloody be there," he had said. However, it had fallen to her to manage them, with Norm keeping a watchful eye over everything. And now Beatrice was six weeks behind in her rent and Norm had never been in two minds about it.

"Give her her marching orders," he said. "We can't have people like her dragging us under. I'm not working like a bloody Trojan six days a week to carry her around."

"But what if she's got nowhere to go?" Jean had said.

"She's got family hasn't she?" Norm said. Jean said she had mentioned family up north, but she was a bit vague about how they were fixed. But the decision was made, Beatrice would have to go. She had two of her own, still at school, and no father there. This gave Jean a sense of misgiving, she could not imagine what life might have been like if anything had happened to Norm ...

*

At the shopping mall Jean dropped off the dress and jacket to be dry cleaned, paid the rates at the council office, picking up those few groceries she still needed and cast discerning glances at the shoes and blouses newly arrived. Her business completed she went outside and withdrew some cash from the money machine. Then she turned and headed back to the car.

As she came near the end of the mall she passed a florist's – inside, a young woman, dark hair, mid twenties, with a yellow splash of daffodils in her hands. Jean, entranced by the bright flowers, stopped, went inside and bought a bunch of the daffodils, passing pleasantries about the beauty of the day with the young woman. She walked out to the car, carrying her shopping in one hand and the daffodils in the other, keeping their slender green stems upright so that it was like she was carrying little yellow lamps, lit by the sun itself.

She got back into the car, carelessly putting the groceries on the back seat, setting the daffodils down carefully above the dashboard. They seemed bright against the dark blue of the car's interior and as she drove towards Beatrice's they seemed to carry her on a yellow cloud of memory back to a long gone day. The riverbank, the water chirruping and chattering across the stones, the sun hot and fierce, the sad flute sound of a skylark somewhere above, the sound of her own crying, the daffodils on the bank opposite, nodding their yellow heads at her as if to say, 'there, there'. Her father had made her cry.

She remembered her father on a day before she was crying by the river, the look on his face as he came into the kitchen, the smell of beer moving like a bow wave before him. He was tall, broad shouldered, but somewhat ravaged, the face unnaturally lined for someone of his age, his big frame knocked about as if he had been set too hard a task in life. He worked mainly as a 'seagull' down at the wharves, casual work, loading and unloading the cargo, coming and going as he pleased. Some days he did not bother to go to work at all, but stayed at the pub all day, talking long with beer glass companions until their words would eventually slide out of their mouths like oil, thick and viscous. He came into the kitchen and Jean knew she would have to sit still and small and say as little as possible.

Her mother put the sausages and the gravy on the table, the wireless played Love Me Tender, her father glowered and the mashed potatoes steamed. Her mother was small. Even at the table she looked so much smaller than her father. Her hair bleached blonde, early wrinkles of worry that could not be hidden by blusher and eyeliner, the hands cracked around the knuckles and ragged fingernail ends. Her eyes seemed always in shadow. She set about the ritual of the dinner, telling Jean to sit up straight, to hold her knife and fork properly, but she kept looking at her husband, kept searching his face for something that was hidden there. It was as if the ritual itself would restrain her, but in the end, though the air was overhung with the cloying tang of alcohol, she could not stop herself from speaking.

"What time did you finish work?" she said

"The usual time."

"What time would that be?"

"The afternoon." He bit into a portion of sausage and ground it down as if he was gnashing his teeth.

"Did you go to the pub afterwards?"

"For a while. I did partake of one or two ales, my dear ... yes. What of it?"

"Who was there?"

"Just the usual crowd."

"Who was that?"

"The usual crowd," he repeated, resting his elbows on the table and chewing slowly as he spoke, looking straight at her. She dabbed at her potato as if to distract herself, but it was too late.

"Was Dorothy there?"

"Dorothy?" he said, his face impassive.

"Dorothy Becker."

"Might have been. I don't know."

"Well was she or wasn't she?"

His eyes flashed black. "What's it to you who was there and who bloody wasn't?"

She recoiled just a little but was determined. Her lips curled and her teeth were sharp. "What sort of a woman goes to a place like that anyway," she said. "She ought to be ashamed. I hear what they say about her."

"Say what? Say what? Who says what for God's sake?"

Her mother looked at Jean, looked away. "You know what they say. What she is."

"Ah ... Jesus bloody Christ," he said. "I don't care what they bloody say. I'll drink with whoever I want to."

"I thought you said she wasn't there?"

"I said she might have been or she might not."

"Well ..." said her mother with a tremor in her voice. "Didn't you notice?"

"Jesus bloody Christ woman. I'm trying to have my evening meal in peace. Give it a rest why don't you?"

"Jean ..." her mother's eyes were damp. "Jean, leave the table."

"Leave her be."

"She's not going to hear that kind of language. Leave the table." Jean went into her bedroom but she could hear the fight as it developed. It was like listening to thunder and knowing it wasn't dangerous, but hoping it would roll away. At the height of it she thought she heard a plate break, indistinct through the walls. She began to imagine it was her mother breaking, pieces of her being broken off by her father's gnarled and sharpened drunk dark words. Then she heard the front door slam and footsteps going down the path. She crept out to the kitchen, carefully opening the door. Her mother sat at the table, her back to her, her shoulders trembling, the soft sound of her crying muffled by her hands covering her face. Jean stood and watched her. She didn't know what to do, so she closed the door and went back to her bedroom, sitting on her bed and waiting for her mother to be all right and come to her.

*

Jean drove through the winding suburban streets, her thoughts still half in the past. Her father had died when she was eighteen, almost a blessing really. He had just sort of collapsed in upon himself, his body worn out well before its time. She had then watched her mother slowly fade, growing paler and paler from the age of forty to fifty, never really finding anyone else, but gaining comfort from a newly awakened faith and being looked up to as an inspired floral arranger at the church. At the age of fifty four she developed cancer and died three months after the diagnosis. She told Jean how her father had been the 'catch' they all wanted when she had met him, how kind he could be. And she was thankful for small blessings, that Jean had been the only child, the Good Lord having shown her a mercy in knowing what a man her husband was. She told Jean she had had to get married, at the age of nineteen, she spoke of it almost with pride, as if it showed how in love they had been. But after complications with the birth she could not have any more children and little Jean had been everything to them, everything. She said sorry to Jean for the years of empty purses and hand me down clothes, of winters without coal and her father's guttural voice cutting through the walls.

But Jean said she wasn't to say sorry, she had done her best by them all and she was grateful for the good things there had been. When she thought about her father now, sometimes she hated him and sometimes she forgave him. She drove on and the daffodils glowed yellow across the dark blue – remember, remember they seemed to say ...

"Go down to the butcher's and get half a dozen rashers of bacon," her mother had said. "We'll use up those eggs and have bacon and egg pie. Your father likes it and those potatoes are good for mashing."

So she went the mile or so to the butcher's and got the bacon. On the way back she went past the Railway Arms Hotel and heard the slow afternoon voices gathered round cold beer and whiskey chasers seeping out into the air above the street. She looked in idle curiosity into one of the windows. There was her father, right in front of her, laughing a kind of dark, mysterious laugh, his face flushed. And there was a woman, and he had his hand on her hand which was on her knee, and he was leaning towards her, laughing, like it was a game or something, and the woman was ugly. Not ugly, but she was laughing too and her laugh was ugly and her mouth was all red lipstick and little bits of lipstick were on her big white teeth and her laugh was a bray and everything was a joke.

Jean had run down to the river that flowed past the fields at the end of town, and as she sat down on the riverbank, the rashers of bacon still in her hand she had begun to cry, shaking and crying, the tears hot and salty at the corners of her mouth. She stayed like that for what seemed an age, closed inside a circle, a sphere of black, and outside it there was nothing. Then at last, when the tears began to slow, she opened her eyes and wiped across her cheeks with the backs of her hands. She looked across the river and there was a patch of tall bright daffodils, their heads nodding at her in the slight breeze. How beautiful they were, she suddenly thought. Like yellow luminescent bells, nodding and ringing. And even though the river ran over the stones saying, 'he's horrible, he's horrible', she thought how beautiful things could be, how beautiful they ought to be. She looked at the daffodils, and when she thought she wouldn't tell her mother because it would make her cry and everything might fall to pieces, be broken, the daffodils seemed to nod to her saying: 'yes that's right, don't tell her'. She got up and walked away and she looked back at the daffodils and they seemed to wave goodbye to her as if they were little yellow flags, saying 'yes, it would be all right'. Go home and it will be all right.

*

Jean let the memory fray and disperse as she concentrated on her driving, nearing the flat where Beatrice was expecting her. Those had been hard days, it was true. Until she met Norm and he seemed to catch at her and haul her up and together they were all right. She met him at a church social. Not that she was a church goer and neither was he. It was just a place to meet people and to dance. She was working in a factory and the work was drab and repetitive but Norm made her laugh like none of the others. And he hadn't come up easy himself either. His father used to knock his mother round, knock them all round until Norm was seventeen. He was on the point of giving as good as he got when his father ran up a bad debt to someone with whom it didn't pay to be off side. He went down the line somewhere and the family never heard from him again.

Jean knew they were good together, they both knew it, both counted their lucky stars and set about making something of themselves, building up what had been taken from them, taking one step at a time, year after year with patience and determination.

Beatrice was a nuisance, she really was. A threat to it all. Norm was right, they couldn't afford to carry dead weight. But Jean had liked Beatrice, had been glad to have her move into the flat with her two young ones. She was in her early thirties, quite pretty, long curled blonde hair, a kind of earthy touch to her with long earrings and bone carvings and her patched jeans and sandals. She was a struggler, Jean knew, but she always had a ready smile and a joke to tell, but if she couldn't keep up with the rent what was the use? They had their own bills to pay after all, it wasn't good sense to pay the mortgage for the flat from the business profits. They had to pay for themselves and Beatrice would just have to lump it.

They had decided to give her twenty one days notice like they were supposed to, that was plenty of time to sort herself out. Jean's concern had to be the proper management of the flats after all – by crikey, she wouldn't be taken advantage of. She had her own responsibilities, if Beatrice wasn't going to play the game there wasn't much she could do about it, she wasn't going to be a soft touch. Beatrice had her own family, she had that brother she was always talking about. She'd be all right. Still ... she had liked Beatrice, it was a shame, it really was ...

She stopped the car outside the flat, a small three bedroom house with its own small section. The lawn was neat and a row of flowers stood below the front lounge window. At least Beatrice took care of the place, Jean thought, but she let the thought pass, steeling herself to her task, taking the letter Norm had hand-written out of her jacket pocket. She had phoned Beatrice in the morning and told her she needed to speak to her. She hated doing it, hated those kind of phone calls, when the person wouldn't tell what it was about, when people said to you, 'I want to talk to you later' – it was seldom to convey good news. She walked up the driveway and knocked on the front door, a wind chime hanging from the porch gave a slight, sighing, bell-like ringing in the just present breeze. Beatrice opened the door and Jean could see straight away by the look in her face she had guessed what it would be about. A glint of wariness yet defiance flashed from her eyes as she greeted Jean.

"I won't mess about Beatrice," Jean said. "I'm here about the rent, the flat." Jean braced herself, kept looking to the left and right as she spoke, reluctant to see the hurt in Beatrice's eyes. "Norm got onto me about it and, well, he thinks it's best if we end our arrangement. I've got a letter here, Norm wrote it, it tells you everything ... we're giving you twenty one days notice, so you'll have time to sort yourself out. It's just that ... well, I mean you're six weeks behind now and we have to have the flats pay for themselves. There's no margin in it you see. I mean we've got to keep the mortgage up ourselves ..." Jean could think of nothing more. She wanted Beatrice to say – 'I understand,' take the letter and just close the door, but when Jean looked in her eyes at last, she could see the hurt and the anger there.

"I can get the rent I owe you," Beatrice said. "I was going to call you tonight to talk to you about it, but I've just been sorting it all out. I can still pay it, it's just going to take me a few weeks, that's all."

Jean was a little taken aback, she had not really considered the possibility of resistance. She decided to be firm. "Well Norm's mind's made up. I'm sorry Beatrice, you've been a good tenant up till now but Norm says we can't manage things that way."

At that Beatrice seemed to rise up, her eyes glittered, her chest expanded. "Jesus Christ Jean!" she snapped. "I've been here two bloody years. My kids are settled at the school. Where am I supposed to bloody go? It's only six bloody weeks I owe you. Just because bloody Norm's a bloody miser doesn't mean you have to throw us out on the street."

Jean rose up too, she did not like to hear Norm called a miser. "Nobody's throwing you out on the street. There are plenty of places you can go. We've been very tolerant, very patient. If you can't play the bloody game why should we bloody carry you?"

"I've told you I can get the money if you just have the decency to wait for it. I've had a bloody hard winter this year. The car broke down and cost a fortune to fix and I can't manage without it, you know that. Then there were the power bills. I had to choose between paying the electric or getting in groceries. My brother's coming down from up north in two weeks time, he's got a job at the freezing works. He owes me money, he owes me a lot and when he starts at the works he's going to give it to me then. I'll have more than enough to pay you everything I owe you. All I need is a bit of time."

Jean hesitated. "Well ... It isn't up to me. If you can't budget it's not our problem. We've got our own responsibilities. Here ... take the letter ..." Beatrice gritted her teeth and looked with rage into Jean's eyes, but just when Jean thought she was going to hurl abuse at her, a wave seemed to flow over her face, her expression became malleable, seemed to melt away, great glistening tears stood poised in her eyes. Then Beatrice's head just slumped, a great wretched sob broke from her, and she stood there wracked by crying, unheeding of Jean, seeming transported to some vast valley of anguish.

"You don't know what it's like," she said in a torn and ragged voice. "You don't know what it's bloody like ..."

And Jean too was suddenly transported. She saw herself standing in a doorway, her mother at the kitchen table, her face in her hands, softly crying, alone. She saw herself beside the river, inside the black circle, and she heard Beatrice and her crying seemed to be the echo of all those tears and she thought; 'the poor thing. The poor wee thing.' She put her hand on Beatrice's shoulder.

"It's all right Beatrice. I'll speak to Norm. We'll work something out. We won't worry about the letter." Beatrice stopped crying, she raised her head and looked at Jean.

"I can get you the money Jean," she said, wiping at her eyes with one hand. "I just need a bit of time."

"It's all right," Jean said. "I'll square it with Norm. We'll wait until your brother fixes you up and then you can fix us up."

"Are you sure? I don't want to get you into any trouble. I just needed the time, that was all ... But Norm might ..."

"Don't worry about Norm. There ..." Jean screwed up the letter. "I manage the flats, it's really my decision. Don't worry about it. We'll sort it all out, it'll all come out in the wash. And you're sure about your brother?"

"Yeah. He owes me heaps. And he doesn't go back on his word. He won't let me down. I'm sorry Jean, I should have ..."

"Don't worry. We'll work it all out. It'll all come right. Just leave it to me, I'll sort it..."

*

Jean drove away from the flat a little dismayed at what she had just done. She looked at the daffodils above the dashboard and thought how fragile their little yellow lights looked, how fragile and delicate everything was, how things got broken, anything could break if you hit it hard enough. But what would she say to Norm? And there was no pretending he would be pleased. 'Why on earth did you?' he would ask. 'Why on earth?' And she thought to herself, because she did know what it was like, she did know ...

* * *
Miss Blandford's Last Day

The cake was perfect. It really was. The best of them all, across all those years. Muriel walked round it in her little kitchen, the cat insinuating himself against her legs, anxious for his morning meal. A carrot cake, her specialty, with thick, luscious icing. It sat invitingly, a kind of orange-yellow glow to it and the texture was smooth like snow. The proof was in the eating of course but if the mixture had been anything to go by as she made it last night, it would certainly please. And it would be the last cake, because it was the last day. The memo had been on the notice board for a week: "A gathering to celebrate the last day of 'Miss Blandford' in the tea-room at four thirty p.m. Cake will be on offer!"

It was old Wilbur, the caretaker who always called her Miss Blandford, would never call her by her first name, or 'Ms'. "It's a matter of respect," he had said when she suggested he call her Muriel. "That's the trouble now-days. Nobody has any respect." And even after he died six weeks after he retired and they found him in his one-room council flat with the blowflies buzzing about, it became something of an office joke. Whenever they wanted to tease her or make out she was very stern with them, they would call her "Miss Blandford" and say; "Nobody has any respect, that's the problem".

But she was renowned for her cakes, they were always glad to have a plate with a piece of her chocolate, banana or carrot cake and a huge dollop of cream at every farewell, birthday or social occasion. And Muriel loved to make them. Why, she felt just like she was an artist when she brought them into the world, like a painter, or a sculptor, yes a sculptor and they were ... edible sculptures ...

Yes, the cake would do very well and she slipped it deftly into the silver tin with the roses on the lid and set about getting the cat his breakfast. Her own breakfast was over and done, she had been up an hour earlier than usual having hardly slept, her mind travelling through strange half-remembered dream landscapes full of faces and voices from the past. The last day! She still remembered the first day, the very moment she stepped into the offices of Wade and Willis.

For twenty eight years it had been the centre of her life, starting as a typist and ending as an Executive Assistant. And now it was going, it was gone. Times had changed, markets had changed, styles had changed, tastes had changed. Wade and Willis was simply out of date, nobody wanted their products anymore and they were slowly winding the company down, laying off staff as needed, and today was Muriel's turn. They would all gather and tell tales and jokes and smile and say "we'll miss you" and "we're grateful" and there would be a big jokey card and everyone would have signed it and written a little something; "Go for it Muriel" and "watch out, here comes Miss Blandford" and "roses are red, violets are blue, sure as eggs are eggs, we'll miss you" and "we won't be able to have our cake and eat it too now!"

She tidied round the kitchen, rinsing the tea cup and making sure the cat door was open. Then she collected her black coat because it was only early spring and the mornings were still cold and she picked up the cake tin, locked the front door, and went out to the garage to the car for the twenty minute drive to work. As she turned the corner of the house, she saw that the first of her roses was just coming into bloom, a reddish-pink with just a hint of orange in it. It really was quite beautiful, like a little sunrise, there just for her, a diamond drop of dew still upon one of the petals, like a lens, the light glancing off it into her eyes so that she remembered another rose, so long ago, as she got into the car and started the motor, began backing out of the drive. A rose held by a masculine hand, a hand that was covered in soft blond hairs, that was strong, yet supple and delicate, proffering the rose across a smooth, pressed white linen tablecloth, a white candle in a silver candlestick in its centre.

And the cutlery was silver and the glass was crystal and the light danced across it and flashed across the room when you picked it up and Cedric was smiling and his eyes shone too, and she was sure then, yes she was sure she loved him, sure that as she took the bloom and touched it to her nose and smiled back that she could be his wife. And the air was filled with the warm smell of spiced meat and the scent of roses and wine, and the violin in the corner was so sweet and high and it all looked and tasted like ... like life, and she was sure she could be, she was sure ...

*

At the office it was hardly any different from any other day. It was just like an ordinary Friday, except people kept saying to her when she saw them – "last day eh Muriel?" and "how does it feel – bet you can't wait to see the last of us eh? Ha! Ha!" But she did spend most of the day getting things in order, closing up files, stacking things, tidying, organising. Finally she had one or two letters to type on the word processor and as she worked she began to drift in her thoughts back across the years to when she had first started and she thought how young she had been! And she was glad to have the position at Wade and Willis, it meant escape, it meant she would never have to see Cedric again.

Back in those days she had left school with nothing much to show for it and first worked at Corman's, the big department store right in the centre of town and she felt sophisticated and important behind the glove counter. But nobody really wore gloves much anymore and it became boring, so she went to night classes, secretarial school, and learned to touch type and take Pitmans, reaching a top speed of one hundred and ten words per minute on one test which was the best in her class. And then when she had her qualification she went to the interview with Torbish and Son, one of the biggest firms in town and old Mrs Dewiton hired her straight away and she went to work in the typing pool and it was more fun because some of them were around her age and it was more interesting than gloves and more money too.

Her parents were pleased that she had found a better position, one they said was more suited to her "talents". Her father said old man Torbish was "canny" and that it was a good job for a girl. Her mother was pleased that her only child would be able to support herself until she got married and had children of her own and there were probably a lot of nice young men at Torbish and Son who had good prospects, so she must always look her best and do her best. Her mother was less sanguine when after her first few pay cheques Muriel announced she was moving out to a boarding arrangement. You could never tell what kind of girl you might meet in those places her mother averred but Muriel was not to be dissuaded.

"All the girls are doing it. I want to stand on my own two feet."

So she had moved her small trunk load of possessions a few suburbs along to Mrs Goldrick's establishment, just a house really, with the pale green weatherboard and the usual corrugated iron roof, a vegetable patch out the back and a rotary clothes-line. One other girl lived there, Arline, who was two years older than her and was an usherette at the Bijou and came in at all hours of the night with a succession of what she called her "men friends" but never bothered Mrs Goldrick too much because she was quite deaf and never heard what the neighbours had to say anyway.

Muriel became quite friendly with Arline and they and other girls they knew often took themselves out on the town, sometimes with young men in tow, sometimes not. They ate at the Blue Parrot, went to the "pictures" at the Bijou and the Astoria and drank at the Sandringham Arms and a little club called the Big Beat which had rhythm and blues and rock and roll bands and Muriel and the others loved to drink gin and tonics and dance all night sometimes.

Things went on in this manner for two years or so, until Muriel heard the news that was sweeping through the typing pool, a whisper that skittered along the corridors of Torbish and Son and flew into offices like a gust of wind trammelling a bright green field of barley. The ladies of the typing pool were agog. Cedric Torbish had returned.

Cedric Torbish was twenty nine and his principal accomplishment was that he was stunningly handsome and his greatest talent was that he stood to inherit the Torbish empire, which consisted in the main of vast tracts of unexplored money where a handsome heir might mount many an expedition to satiate his desire for 'la dolce vita'.

Cedric had been abroad since completing his university studies, eight years on the Continent and swinging round the more chic places in London. And although the Torbish family had risen from humble origins they were now one of the country's most significant manufacturers and hob nobbed it with those circulating in the upper reaches of the social stratosphere. But Cedric's days of skiing in St Moritz, the summer villa in Biarritz, the 'season' in London, the leather-chaired clubs, the 'first night' parties in the West End, and the "just for fun" yacht races to the south of Spain had come to an end. Cedric had been summoned back to the land his forefathers had espied from the deck of wooden ships and declared upon seeing it; "it is good – let us go forth and prosper", and they did.

Cedric was tall and lean, his blond hair swept back, his eyes bright, sharp blue, the teeth oh so white and large, the laugh loud, frequent, and easy in the making. But now his father wanted him home, wanted him to settle and to sink roots, to take upon himself the mantle of responsibility that went with the Torbish name. To learn the ropes of the business, to carry on the Torbish dynasty.

Every now and then Cedric would sweep past the windowed wall of the typing pool and thirty pairs of eyes would follow his dapper suited form as he was rapt in conversation with a similarly well bedecked colleague or his eyes on files and forms, reading as he went. One or two rumours sprang up as to how he had spent his time in Europe, or rather with whom, and the favourite rumour became that he had 'knocked up' a member of the titled set but the whole thing was hushed up and never came to anything because Cedric's blood wasn't blue enough.

Then something unexpected happened. Cedric came into the typing pool and spoke at some length to Mrs Dewiton, her smiling through her thick horn-rimmed glasses, him gesticulating round the typing pool. She showed him some files from her cabinet, and as he perused them, thirty pairs of eyes darted to and from what they were typing, the minds behind the eyes a-wonder at this visitation. Muriel too kept glancing at the pair and then to her astonishment Mrs Dewiton seemed to be pointing in her direction, gesturing back at the files and then looking towards her again. Her heart began to beat a little faster, a sensation akin to anxiety forced her to concentrate on her fingers so her typing did not go astray. Then Cedric was gone and a shade seemed to fall upon the room, though the fluorescent lights burned their bright waxy white as ever, and a collective sigh, a faint susurration, like the softest of waves on a pebble beach, rose up from the room and disappeared into the ventilation shaft where it was carried to the outer air, to mingle with the dusty, unrequited dreams of city dwellers long gone.

At five o'clock Mrs Dewiton came alongside Muriel's desk and asked her to stay after work for a moment. When the others had gone Mrs Dewiton came straight to the point. Mr Cedric Torbish wanted someone from the tying pool to become his secretary, he had looked at several of the girls' records but was most impressed with Muriel, particularly her shorthand speed. The job was hers if she wanted it. What kind of muse had decided to alight upon Muriel's shoulder and guide her thus! She agreed at once, her face a little flushed, her fingers seeming to seek some stringed instrument to play in their perturbation.

So it was, the next week, she found herself behind a desk outside Cedric Torbish's office, with a black telephone, a new typewriter and her own filing cabinets. The typing pool was all but forgotten, the envious murmur that swept round the room when the announcement was made now faded like a distant lament. Her mother was gleeful at her girl's "advancement" as she called it and her father said if the son was a chip off the old block she'd do well to put her nose to the grindstone and make the most of it.

When Cedric finally swept into the outer office at ten past nine that morning, Muriel almost developed a stammer as he bid her good morning and asked her to fetch him a cup of tea and two chocolate biscuits. But Cedric was no aristocrat, he had a common streak and an easy, lazy charm that beguiled Muriel and most of those he dealt with. It was not long before she was at ease in his company and would only catch herself occasionally, as she watered the plants atop his cabinets, for instance, gazing at his lean, handsome face and enjoying the sensation of being so close to him, to the scent of his aftershave, the flow of his fine blond hair, the movement of his broad shoulders beneath his pearl-grey jacket, it was only then she would wonder, would feel ... an attraction.

And then one day, a few months later, everything changed. It was a Friday afternoon and Muriel was waiting for the intercom to buzz and for Cedric to ask for his tea and biscuits as he always did, although Muriel would never presume to prepare them without being asked. But the office door stayed closed, the intercom did not buzz, it was mausoleum still in Cedric's office. At last Muriel was overcome with concern and curiosity, she opened the office door to ask Cedric is he wanted his afternoon tea. What a surprise to find him hunched in his chair, his forehead supported by one hand, his head bowed, and a certain unkempt look for a man of such impeccable appearance having crept over him. Muriel could have simply asked him if he wanted his tea, but for some reason, perhaps moved by the usually luminous and gregarious Cedric somehow belittled by some deep emotion, she addressed him by his first name.

"Is everything all right Cedric?" He started for a moment and then, perhaps touched by the genuine concern in her voice, turned hurt eyes towards her.

"Yes. Thank you Muriel. Everything's fine."

"Are you sure?" She stepped into the office, stood right beside him, tilted her face towards him, to show her concern, to widen the moment of intimacy that seemed to be burgeoning between them. "You seem a little upset."

"It's nothing really ..." Cedric said, seeming to consider whether he should say more. Muriel's soft-eyed angel face hovering just before him, her shining curled fair hair, her very breath the air of empathy, seemed to reassure. "It's just ... I've had a bit of a knock, that's all ..." Muriel said nothing but her kind expression and her understanding eyes seemed to say, "go on".

"It was a girl I fancied ... well, ... I was rather serious about her actually. Millicent. It seems she's going to marry bloody Roger Bannock." He smiled a thin smile, drank in the deep sea-green of Muriel's eyes, caught the warm scent of her perfume, she was very close, and then added: "I was quite fond of her really. I think I was in love with her, and I thought that she and I ... you know ... so it's a bolt out of the bloody blue. Ha! Ha! What an idiot I'm making of myself ... you must think I'm soft ..."

"No Cedric," Muriel said in a quiet voice. "I don't think you're soft." Something passed across her expression that showed she thought many things of him, but not that, and Cedric caught sight of it, it seemed to flash into the corners of his eyes and he saw how beautiful Muriel really was.

"You can tell me about it if you like," said Muriel, and Cedric smiled in gratitude and told her everything, right from the beginning. They had tea together in Cedric's office, and Muriel tended to his words with biscuits and sugar and sympathy. She did not even think it odd that she should share her afternoon tea with Cedric Torbish and neither it seems did he, so eager was he to tell the tale of the faithless Millicent. He had known her since school days, everybody expected them to end up together, but she was bloody beautiful, it was no wonder Roger had gone for her, but still, the things she had said, the things they had done together, he thought there was an understanding ... And all the while he was talking Muriel looked with those eyes with that deep ocean colour. At the end of it, Muriel put down her teacup and folded her arms.

"Well I think you've been ill-used," she said. "It seems to me that Millicent has led you on, that she just toyed with you. She probably never had any intention of taking it further, was probably just waiting for someone better to come along. Women do that you know Cedric, they'll hang on to what they've got until a bigger prize comes along. I've seen it all before. I think you're better off without her. Really I do.

"Of course you'll suffer, you're suffering now. The gentle hearts always do, those that truly love. But think about it, she didn't really love you. That's not what you would have wanted is it? To love someone who didn't truly love you in return? I mean ... if you can't have a relationship that's built on true love, what's the point?

"It's just that ... I can tell you've loved deeply, truly deeply. That's why you're so hurt. You have a sensitive heart Cedric, you were bound to suffer for love, before you find true love. I say good riddance. I mean, you know, she's not worth it, that's what I'm trying to say. You deserve better and you'll find better."

"Thank you Muriel. Your heart's in the right place. I was just ... so gone on her, you know? I mean ... as I said, I had no idea Roger Bannock was in the picture ... but there we are ..."

"Well," said Muriel, standing up and smoothing down her skirt, moving more assuredly in the office than she had ever done before. "If you need to talk about it, or anything ... I'm right next door." She smiled indulgently.

"You're too kind Muriel," said Cedric, half standing up. "Listen ... what are you doing after work tonight? I mean ... would you like to, you know, go somewhere? Maybe get something to eat? We could talk some more ..." He smiled and the smile was becharming, a glittering silver hook, arcing through the air.

"All right," said Muriel. "That would be nice." She turned and left the office, a slight blush creeping up the back of her neck, her feet seeming to tread upon stairs in the air, her shoes light, her feet transparent.

*

Muriel knew she had made a mistake as soon as they sat down at one of the formica tables at the Blue Parrot. Cedric's face, the very way he held himself seemed to convey distaste. Muriel realised with a sinking feeling that Cedric was used to the best in life, what right had she to bring him into the steak, egg and chips world she occupied?

"We could go somewhere else if you like?" she said, anxious. "I mean the food's not bad here really ... and ... well ... you know, it's cheap. Well ... not cheap, reasonable, you know? You get good portions."

"No, no," said Cedric, putting his elbows on the table, steepling his hands together and glancing around. "It has a certain ... rough charm. I'm quite hungry actually, so a ... good nosh ... will be just the ticket." He smiled.

"Are you sure? I know a couple of other places."

"No, it's fine. I mean it's ... out of the way. It's ... I don't think anyone will bother us here."

Muriel was not entirely reassured but they ordered, ate, and drank thick sweet tea afterwards and Cedric seemed to loosen up as the meal progressed, until he was actually quite jovial, but he remembered from time to time how sad he was about Millicent and would occasionally be quiet for a moment.

He still made Muriel smile a lot, so that by the time Cedric paid the bill, leaving a tip that was generous but not large enough to be condescending, and they stepped out into the night Muriel felt suffused with a kind of warm, sociable glow so that when Cedric took her arm as they walked to the bus stop she was rather pleased and two red spots appeared in her cheeks and her eyes glittered in the streetlights, bright from within.

At the bus stop Cedric stood close to her as they waited, and told her of London and Paris; Paris alive with fiery light in the scented spring evening, London grey stone and grey sky, but the church bells and Big Ben calling across the town, summoning all to brash-lit Piccadilly and bustling Leicester Square. And when the bus came and he kissed her a soft goodbye on the cheek it was then she began to dream, began to dream as the bus jolted and jarred to the boarding house that there could be more to life for Muriel Blandford, that she too could stroll down the Champs Elysee or be dressed in high collar fur and diamond bracelet, with first night tickets for a Shaftesbury Avenue theatre, arm in arm with ... perhaps, perhaps ...

At the office the next day there was, when Cedric came in the door, a moment or two of awkwardness. But it was soon absorbed into the routine of the day, and if Cedric stood a little closer than usual to Muriel as he gave her instructions for the letters he wanted typed, if their eyes met more often, if an illumination of understanding was beginning to pass between them, neither seemed to mind, so that when a shadow would cross Cedric's face and he moved a little slower, Muriel would know he was thinking of Millicent and her betrayal and she would be extra kind, her voice becoming mellifluous, the occasional touch of her hand to the back of his hand like a comforting benediction.

At the end of the week he suggested they go out "for a bite" again and for the second time they found themselves at the Blue Parrot and for the second time Cedric kissed her on the cheek as the bus drew in. On the third time they ate their steaks at the Blue Parrot, Cedric took her hand across the table and practically never let go of it all night, and at the bus stop, he kissed her on the lips, long, slow, warm - a lover's kiss.

After that he began to drive her home and they would sit in the car outside and kiss and touch and grow passionate, and in the end she said: "Come in with me. Stay." And they slept together right under Mrs Goldrick's roof with Arline in the room next door, and Muriel thought as she lay with him, as he moved inside her, she loved him, she loved him more than the sun was bright, more than all the lambent pools of moonlight poured together across all the world. She loved him, she loved him madly, and she saw him every day, and every end of week, after all the others had gone, they would leave the office and dine, all the while in anticipation of the drive home, of creeping into the house, of being determined not to waken Mrs Goldrick and talking for hours in breathless whispers and a passionate restraint lest they should be discovered.

Cedric was Muriel's first lover but Muriel was not Cedric's first. Muriel wanted to tell Cedric she loved him but she wanted him to feel the same, she wanted him to say it first. And she waited, and she waited. Then one Friday she had an idea, an impulse, that sent a shudder through their pairing.

"Why don't we go somewhere else next week?" she said at the end of their meal at the Blue Parrot. "Somewhere a bit nicer."

"Okay," Cedric said. "If you know somewhere that's suitable. But I've got used to the old Parrot."

"No ... I mean somewhere you want to go. Somewhere ... one of your places."

"What? What do you mean?"

"You know. Somewhere ... somewhere decent." A little vicious sliver seemed to slide on to Muriel's tongue. "You know, somewhere you would have taken Millicent."

Cedric's shoulders seemed to hunch upwards as if he had fur beneath his jacket that was rising, his face twisted into a dark shape. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Muriel regretted her words immediately, but she could feel a hidden resentment beginning to uncoil and unleash within her. "I mean when are we going to do something different? When are we going to meet each other's friends for example? I could meet your friends, you know, I'm not ill bred. You never talk about them ... I mean, I don't know what you do on Saturdays and Sundays, who you're with ... I mean ... is this all there is?"

"You're being ridiculous. I don't know why you're saying this. You know it's not possible ... it just wouldn't be right. My father would have a fit if he knew we were ... you know, if he knew we were together. We can't just ... carry on all over the place, as if ... as if there's no ... difference between us. As if it's all ... usual. I mean I thought you understood. That we've got to be discreet. I mean, we've both got to think of our reputations."

Muriel was taken aback. She was regretting her outburst, regretting spoiling the evening, the mood. She had not expected Cedric to defend himself so assiduously. She fell back on her first impulse.

"Well why don't we go somewhere different then, somewhere nice? I just wouldn't mind ... something, romantic, you know, something pleasant."

At the boarding house Muriel would not let Cedric make love to her, though they were in bed together. He became exasperated, he became shrewd.

"If it all upsets you so much," he said. "We'll go somewhere else next week. I know a place. It's got a lovely atmosphere, they have a violinist. I'm sure you'll like it. The management's very ... well, I mean, it would make a nice change from the Parrot. And you're so beautiful you deserve to try it, to have a treat." And after more soothing words Muriel took him in her arms because she was grateful and she was optimistic too, that the fine restaurant would be a turning point, that she was right about Cedric, that he really was wonderful, but as he said, it was all terribly awkward with his father and everything, but it could all work out, it could all come true, she could hear the smiling peal of the bells, the confetti like pink snow in the air, her dress so white ... And Muriel did not say that she loved him, would not say it first, but she took him inside her with an intensity, she showed him that she loved him, she showed him that they were meant to be together, that they could be together, if only he would, if only he would ...

*

When they walked into the large restaurant Cedric gave the maitre de notes from the underside of his hand, Muriel supposed for a good table. The table they got was at the far end, almost tucked out of sight behind a large potted plant, but Muriel did not notice. She was intoxicated with the scent of silver polish, the diamond glint of candlelight off gleaming chrome, the galaxies unfolding in the crystal chandelier and crystal glasses, the tang of aromatic meats and expensive perfumes, the sound of the violin in the opposite corner, so sharply sweet, like champagne singing through the air.

In the centre of the table the silver candlestick, the candle flame soft yellow like gold, the touch of fingers on mahogany, teak and delicate porcelain, silver light everywhere, and across from her Cedric's face, alive with pastel light, his eyes dark and reflections flickering in them. And the food was like nothing she had ever tasted, biting down into it was like biting down into a secret, a delicious, warm, dark mystery that flowed through her, satiated her and intrigued her. And when the young woman came by selling the flowers, Cedric bought her a rose, a fiery, orange-pink-red bloom that had a scent like wine and she held it to her nose and looked across at him and she thought, I'm only what I am but it could be, it really could be ...

After that they lapsed back into their usual routine for a few more weeks, and Muriel was happy but still discontent, and then the world began to fall away, began to crumble at the edges, larger and larger pieces falling off and tumbling into empty black space. The first thing was that one Friday they were at the Blue Parrot when two of Muriel's friends came in. Muriel was obliged to greet them and introduce them to Cedric, "a friend from work." Cedric became occluded and seemed distant the rest of the night, he seemed to blame Muriel for her friends turning up unexpectedly. When they got to the boarding house Cedric wouldn't come in, said he was exhausted from the business of that day. Muriel managed to dismiss both things. It was just that Cedric had been taken by surprise that he was put out by her friends, otherwise ... as to not coming in, he had had a hell of a day, there had been a lot of problems, so ...

The next thing was more discomforting. One of the women from the typing pool came in with a report that had been passed on to them while Muriel concentrated on the urgent day to day material. The woman was middle-aged, with high red hair, thick foundation and bright red lipstick, a cigarette between her lips. She was new and Muriel had not worked with her in the typing pool. She had seen her about but had never spoken to her.

"Here's the report Mr Torbish wanted," the woman said as she almost carelessly dropped the document on Muriel's desk.

"Thanks," said Muriel. "I'll make sure he gets it."

"I'm sure you will dear," the woman said. "I'm sure you will." A slight, contemptuous smile lit upon her lips. She took a drag on her cigarette and eased out smoke. Her eyes had a knowing, amused, superior look. She turned and walked out and Muriel felt belittled and enraged. She banged things round on the desk and clenched her teeth.

Who the hell did that bitch think she was? Why didn't she just come right out and call her a slut? And then she felt dismayed, somewhat anxious. She knew! Knew all about it! She must do. They all must, everybody in the damned typing pool, god, probably everybody in the whole office. Oh, what would Cedric say? She resolved to say nothing to him. And what did they know anyway? It was just gossip, that was all, just idle, jealous gossip. There were those who had never forgiven her for getting the position as Cedric's secretary after all.

But the penumbra that was forming round the bright edges of her life continued to grow. Later that week Cedric complained about a series of letters she had typed, typographical errors had begun to creep into her work like insects into a garden, little disorganised holes began appearing. Then an important address and telephone number were lost somewhere in the office and Cedric had acted as if she had deliberately disposed of it to thwart or punish him in some way, he acted as if the fate of empires depended upon its being found, and that should they fall and great swathes of Visigoths sweep across the border, the name that would be sent up for sending to the stake would be that of Muriel Blandford. And not only that, Cedric moved about like some grim surveyor, putting in dark pegs that began to measure off the distance between them, widening it as he went. There was no longer the half smile, the quick jest and the easy go lightly way they had as if their work was just a game that let them be together. And she had, in all those months, never told him she loved him, because he had never said it, had only said "later," always "later."

Then on the Friday he said he couldn't go to the Blue Parrot, that his father was giving "some bloody function" that he couldn't avoid, but he was sure she would understand. He even said she could go home early, at four thirty, and only gave her the coolest kiss on the cheek for a farewell, as if he was obliged to touch his lips to a stone in some arcane and tedious ceremony. And his eyes as he closed the door on her seemed to be full of some irrevocable decision, as if he was already on one side of a drawbridge and she on the other, his hand upon the chain wheel.

She was somewhat benumbed by the change of attitude, and sat alone in her room on the Friday night, small bursts of anxiety blossoming, arcing and descending within her, like dark fireworks. But her mind would not allow her to take the full force of the rejection without attempting to deny it. There was so much between them, so many whispers and sighs, so many soft and hard embraces, so many words half murmured in warm sheltered dawn. Why couldn't he see it? Why couldn't he see that it didn't matter who they were, who she was, it didn't matter what they thought . It only mattered that she loved him, it only mattered that he ...

She dozed her way through the Saturday afternoon and Saturday night, she declined Arline's invitation to "the flicks" and sat weighing up each moment of intimacy across the hours, days and months against Cedric's cold touch on the day before. On the Sunday, Mrs Goldrick left the weekend paper on the kitchen sideboard for Arline and Muriel to read if they wanted and after lunch Muriel picked it up and sat in the lounge, passing through each article as if she were an uninterested visitor to an art gallery full of portraits of human pain, until she came to the society pages. And there it was, not a large photograph, not particularly sharp, the grain making the faces insubstantial, as if they could fade at any moment. But it was Cedric all right, wearing a black tuxedo and black bow tie, his head turned slightly to the right, laughing at what another man, shorter, also in tuxedo was saying.

On the other side of him was a blonde, long haired woman, smiling at the joke, her lips full, her cheekbones high, the black and white eyes no doubt blue. She was beautiful, slender and graceful, a diamond bracelet on the wrist of the hand that was just touching Cedric on the arm, a knowing touch, a familiarity, an easiness in it captured by the camera. Muriel read the caption and kept re-reading it, her eyes going from the caption to the woman's smiling lips, the fingers touching Cedric's arm. "From left to right: Roger Bannock, Cedric Torbish and Millicent Swainey, Arcadia Society Charity Ball, Friday night."

*

At the office the next morning, a blustery, overcast day, Muriel sat sick and small at her desk, waiting on shards of uncertainty for Cedric to arrive. She had been awake half the night, in the grip of a nauseous fear, and now the moment of revelation was at hand. When he did come in Muriel was almost pathetically glad to see him but though he smiled and reassured with the buoyancy of his good morning, she caught somewhere in the shadows of his expression as he passed through to his office, something restrained, something hidden, as if he was irritated by something but secretly joyful at once.

It was just a fragment but Muriel caught it, it seemed poised to strike down between her shoulder blades, like a dull edged knife and her heart beat swift, quick worried quavers. But Muriel was possessed of a degree of courage, she resolved to discover the truth, to ask the question. She stood up and patting her hair into place, stepped boldly into Cedric's office and pinned him immediately with her glance, and though they both knew the question, and that she would ask it, everything that could be asked was in that glance, and in truth, Muriel had her answer even before she began to speak, but not only courageous, she was also reluctant to cede all to despair, and ask she must.

"How was your do on Friday?" she said and though she wanted to remain completely calm a mixture of anxiety and anger was surging beneath the surface and she was afraid that the tips of her fingers were beginning to tremble.

"Oh not too bad," said Cedric. "A lot of blue-bloods and do-gooders swanning about. It was boring actually. I was glad to get home at the end of it."

"Oh. I thought you might have phoned me. On Sunday."

"Well, I couldn't get near the bloody phone because of the old man. He spent most of the afternoon on it and then after tea ... well I didn't want to ring late and get you into strife with old Goldrick."

"Oh," said Muriel. She looked about the office for a moment as if Cedric was a real estate agent and she was just a prospective tenant. She looked at him. "I saw you."

"Saw me?" Just the faintest ripple of perturbation passed across the dark holes of his eyes. "Where?"

"In the paper. The Sunday paper. The society pages."

"Oh that!" said Cedric, and he smiled. "Not much of a photo I'm afraid. I don't think they got my best side. I looked like an idiot."

"And was Roger Bannock there?"

"Roger? He was in the photo wasn't he? What do you want to know about him for?"

"Because," said Muriel, and her voice took fire. "I want to know if he was there with Millicent Swainey or were you with her."

Cedric looked at her for a moment as if she had spoken in a foreign language, then his eyes seemed to haze and cloud, he seemed to be making vast calculations over the present, the past, and especially the future. "Millicent was there," he said and his voice seemed to have edged downwards, seemed to be seeking a formal register. "But of course you know that. As to Roger ... well, it seems, since you're so interested, that he and Millicent have split up and she's broken off the engagement."

"But was she with you?" The fire had spread to Muriel's eyes but Cedric held her gaze, he paused, he seemed to run over all the calculations again, looked down the event lined avenue of consequences to the horizon, trying to see the distance and the destination. He held Muriel's eyes as he spoke.

"As a matter of fact ... she was."

Muriel almost cried out as the dagger of words stabbed into the skin and sinews and bone of her back and blood began to flow. Great tears stood in her eyes, poised like drops upon the ends of dark leaves, ready to fall upon the confirmation, at the slightest touch.

"Did you ask her to go with you?"

"No ... we just ... sort of got together there. But ... she and I ..."

The tears began to overflow and fall, one following the other down Muriel's cheeks, though she made hardly any sound, could not speak. Cedric came out from behind the desk and took her by the arms, his face close to hers.

"I'm sorry Muriel. I couldn't forget her. It was her I loved, all along. I just didn't realise it that was all. You and I had a great time together, I'm not saying we didn't, but I love her, you know, I just always did I suppose, just didn't realise. And you and I, we were never ... you know ..."

"Never what?" Muriel said and her voice was tight. She twisted her arms free from his grip and moved across the other side of the room. "Did you spend the night together?"

"How do you mean?"

"You know what I mean ... did you _fuck_ her?"

"No I didn't," said Cedric and his eyes flashed. "Millicent's not the sort to ..."

"Oh, and I am, am I?" said Muriel, the fury in her rising.

"Don't try and make it into anything more that what it was," Cedric spat. "You had a good time. You can't deny it."

"So you're going out with her?" Muriel said, ignoring Cedric's comment. "We're done and now she's yours, what you wanted anyway?"

"I'm going to ask her to marry me," said Cedric and as Muriel blanched whiter than she already was he sensed the battle was all but won. He set his jaw. "I'm pretty sure she'll say yes."

The knife twisted and Muriel was mortally stricken. But there was little more to say, the argument was over and he was released, Muriel could not claim him back now. She stood, bleeding to death before him, but he would not save her, would not recant.

"So we're over? We're through?"

"Yes. I love Millicent. That's all."

"But what am I going to do?" said Muriel. "How can we keep on working together now? How can we be together after this? What are we going to do?" Tears of grief and rage stood in Muriel's eyes again.

"We don't have to do anything," Cedric said. "I'll ... I'll send you back to the typing pool."

"What? Are you mental?"

"Well, what else can we do? You can't go on working for me, can you? I mean, be realistic. What if Millicent ..."

"If I told her you mean?"

"Or someone might. There's that to consider too you know. People are beginning to talk. If my father finds out, he won't let you stay."

"Don't you understand? I can't go back to the typing pool. Not after this. It's impossible."

"It won't be that bad. I'll just say I've decided to get a personal assistant, someone with a university education to take on expanded duties."

Muriel looked at him. How cruel he was, how wicked and cruel, yet she loved him, loved him so much and saw it would be Millicent, her lips, her smile, her bed, he would be inside her ... She turned and fled the room, the tears beginning to flow unhindered. She gathered up her coat and handbag and the bits and pieces she needed.

"You can't go now," Cedric said, pursuing her. "We need to talk about this. About how we're going to arrange everything."

Muriel said nothing. She put on her coat, clasped her handbag with an iron grip and aimed for the door without looking back at Cedric. And though her eyes were blinded by tears, hot and salty, the taste of defeat and grief and bitterness in the corners of her mouth, she found the door and passed through, into the lonely hollow realm of her future, and each step along the hard linoleum floor, each echoed shoe cried out; betrayed! betrayed! betrayed!

*

At last the day was dwindling down to its end, it was nearly four-thirty and time for the farewell. Muriel had been through her files and her desk and boxed up everything that needed to be, completed and dispatched any last minute correspondence, had answered the phone a few times, but had not really had a great deal to do. She looked round the office and it felt as if each day, week, month, year, she had spent there had all coalesced into one long day, she could not recall half of what had happened and those incidents she could recall she could not place exactly in space and time. But she did remember her first day at Wade and Willis.

Remembered the very first moment of coming through the door and being greeted by Mr Hillbrow, and being relieved to find he was middle-aged, grey-haired, kindly and well married. After that last confrontation with Cedric she never went back to Torbish and Son, handing in her notice by mail. The only reply she got was from the personnel department acknowledging her resignation. Cedric never phoned, never wrote. And although she was ravaged by grief and despair, tormented by the vision of Cedric and Millicent together, all the things they would be doing together, although it was an agony to lift the weight of her body out of bed in the mornings, she got up, she knew not how, and after getting a reference from old Mrs Dewiton, (who was romantic enough at heart not to ask too many questions about why she and not Cedric had been approached), she went looking for a job.

About three weeks later she got the offer from Wade and Willis and almost cried with relief that she had escaped Torbish and Son and would never have to face Cedric again. She lost out in that at Wade and Willis it was back to the typing pool but she managed to keep from the other women what had actually happened at her previous employment, all except June, a woman a little older than her, with dyed blond hair, a capricious sense of humour and temper, a stocky frame and high, cackling, infectious laugh.

She took Muriel under her wing and they became in a short space of time good friends, socialising together and dragging Arline along with them in rolling revelries around the town, avoiding the Blue Parrot and Muriel tried to disentangle each and every moment and experience from memories of Cedric. She told June and Arline about it, most of it, and they called down the wrath of goddesses of all denominations upon Cedric's head. And in time the pain eased. Muriel felt that a hot brand had been placed against her skin, and though the burning was gone and the flesh was cooling, the brand mark remained.

At times she almost forgot Cedric and it was on one of those days, about eighteen months later, that she opened the paper and there were Cedric and Millicent, beneath and within a cloud of confetti, and Muriel fancied she could hear the bells pealing and the cries of "good luck!" from the ink and paper people who stood with arms upraised, fingers spread, splashing all the good things there were in the world of luck and birth upon the happy couple. She did not cry but she did get drunk. She sat in her room and let the radio take her where it would with each song. She drank gin and tonics until in the end she lay flat on the bed and the room careened and whirled around her until she drifted off into a sleep like sailing into an overcast horizon where a dull, ire-filled sun was being consumed by an oil-dark sea.

In the ensuing days and weeks, she would return occasionally to an echo of the feelings she had the day she walked away from Cedric, but those feelings began to fade with time and June and Arline jollied her along and it was about six months later that she met through June, Howie.

June had skipped a couple of the girls' night out sessions to go out with Johnny, a tall, thin, shunter on the railways who had a perennial smile and a roll your own stuck to the corner of his mouth. One night June said Johnny had a friend who worked with him and Muriel should double date with them. She agreed and Howie was a well built, strong, clean-cut man the same age as her with an easy way about him and almost taciturn in his slow speech. When they went out he was shy but very considerate of Muriel and he had a kind of Carey Grant look about the eyes, cheekbones and nose that appealed to her. When he asked her out again she said yes, and it was not long before Howie became her second lover.

As a lover Muriel discovered he was much more brusque than Cedric, his workman's hands would feel like fine sandpaper moving over her skin, he was brash but passionate. They even began to go to the Blue Parrot again and at first it was strange to have Howie opposite her, but his rapport with the staff and his ever-ready "thanks for that mate," soon made it feel almost as if it had always been him, almost.

After several months of dating, he asked her to marry him, at the Blue Parrot, the words travelling over the table, across the egg-stained plates and bread crusts with tinges of lip-smeared butter still clinging to them. He offered her everything in his kingdom. A railway house with a washing machine and wringer, a well maintained Ford Cortina and on Friday nights it would be fish and chips and on Saturdays a bit of a flutter on the horses at the T.A.B. and a jug and gin and tonic at the R.S.A. amongst the old soldiers. Muriel said she would think about it. She thought about it for a night, then said "no."

It was not that Howie could not offer her a stable, steady and not-without-joy life, it was that he could not offer her the fairytale, or what passed for it on Earth; the comfortable leather sofa in the well-lit, blazing fire lounge. Pouring brandy from a crystal decanter and remembering the afternoon dressed in a white, wide-brimmed, blue-ribboned hat with a flute of champagne in your hand as your favourite horse thundered down the home straight and took the cup by two lengths. He could not offer her the world that had vaporised into clouds of what-might-have-been, he was not Cedric. She could not bring herself to admit she was condemned to live amongst the ordinary folk and the everyday world. She would not marry Howie and they went their separate ways.

She and June remained friends, June married Johnny and eventually Howie would agree to be in the same room as Muriel although he took it hard at first. A couple of years later he married someone else and moved away and June left Wade and Willis and Muriel stayed on, devoting herself to her career and winding her way up various ladders to become an Executive Assistant. At the age of thirty six, she bought her own house and being single and childless, took solace by becoming godmother to June's two and watching them grow up, babysitting whenever called upon. But sometimes, when she saw June with her boy and girl, she almost wished she had married Howie.

Then she met Gilbert, or Gilly as his friends called him. Gilly came round from the insurance company to have a look at the house when she got the home and contents cover. He was a little over forty, quite handsome in a weighty sort of way with bright grey eyes and a way of looking at you when you were speaking to him that made you feel that your words were wonderful jewels he was admiring as they trickled and tumbled out of your mouth. It was a charming quality and when he asked her out to dinner she accepted.

Gilly was quite well educated and had quite a wide circle of friends. He played rugby for a not too serious team in the winter and cricket for a social side in the summers. After six or so months, he and Muriel began cohabiting as a precursor to a possible marriage, a possibility they discussed one evening over a restaurant dinner and they began living together in Muriel's place and Gilly was very handy with wallpapering and painting and lawn-mowing. Muriel was also glad to have him there because during that year her mother died and as she was the only child she had to spend a great deal of time supporting her devastated father.

By now Muriel had become part of the real world. If and when she thought of Cedric, it was like remembering a dream she had long ago, parts of it rainbow-coloured clear, parts of it vague, fog-like, as if she could only remember so much but not what happened in the end. Gilly was not, like Howie, to be thrown over because of his everyday suit and early morning shoe-shine ritual, but in the second year he began to get on her nerves.

It was the way he slowly but surely took control of everything, like a creeping usurpation of her own free will. He took upon himself the payment of all bills, he took upon himself the deciding of their weekly menu and which restaurants they would eat at. They began to argue over what movies they would see and which TV programmes they would watch. Finally, he took to managing events in the bedroom, organising each encounter seemingly to maximise his own enjoyment. In the end she took him out to dinner to "re-evaluate their relationship," the upshot of which was that Gilly moved out and Muriel returned to single life at the age of thirty eight.

Five years after that her father died after quite a long illness and Muriel had come close to leaving Wade and Willis to care for him full time, but one night before that decision had to be made, he just faded out like an overexposed photograph until there was nothing left of him, just a white face on a white pillow, a white hand on a white bedspread. But Muriel did not feel so alone. She and June had remained close friends and after her father died and because what few relations she did have were somewhat distant, Muriel would spend Christmas Day with June and became pretty much part of the family.

Arline too remained a close friend though she had long since moved to the far north and married the owner of a backpackers' hostel. She came back to the city regularly to visit family and always found time to spend a few days or sometimes more with Muriel and every now and then they would, as they travelled through the labyrinths of memory, alight in a place where the ghosts of Cedric and the long gone Blue Parrot could be discerned, vapour wrapped but shining, in the cool, echoing dark.

But she never married, she never had children of her own, the second pill more bitter than the first, and at the age of fifty seven, she found herself still at Wade and Willis, her mortgage still owing, with Cedric Torbish thirty four years behind her.

*

Muriel stood before her co-workers and felt as if she should burst into song, an aria perhaps, or a soliloquy, they seemed as if they expected to be entertained, or at least be rolling around in the aisles at her farewell speech anecdotes and witticisms. She felt rather nervous, but the sight of the cake in its orange-yellow circular solidity, the knowledge of how good it would taste reassured her and she began to speak.

"First of all I'd like to thank you all for being here, it's a lovely turnout and it's good to see so many of you from the Valley Avenue branch made the effort to get here. Well ... where to start? I have seen so many faces pass through these doors and out again, and I suppose I always knew in the back of my mind that one day I'd be one of them. And for this face there will be no return. Like death really, isn't it? (There was a polite laugh). I have always enjoyed working for Wade and Willis and it saddens me that the world has changed, not necessarily for the better, and that we are now an anachronism. Quality, style, durability ... what we sent out to the world had all those things, but, as they say, there's no accounting for taste and indeed the wanton caprice of fashions.

"And as to my part in it all? Well ... once again I don't really know how to measure it. A thousand years from now will they gather round the tribal fire and tell the tale of the Executive Assistant from Wade and Willis? No. A thousand years from now no-one will know any detail of the life of Muriel Blandford, she will be gone from all consciousness here on the Earth and indeed no-one alive then will probably even know that Wade and Willis once existed.

" So, our lives are very small, barely discernible beneath the lens of the microscope God must need to put to his eye to see us. We're travellers in a railway station universe, coming in on one train and waiting to go out on another. Where we came from we do not know. Does the next train, after our brief interval in the echoing, high-arched, dimly lit station, take us back to our origin, or, to another, more brightly lit destination? There are no answers to this in the files of the marketing department, the account books or on the factory floors of Wade and Willis. In the end I suppose it's the here and now that matters, that what we do, typing a letter, answering the phone, opening the mail, may not reverberate through to the afterlife or into the far reaches of the cosmos, but in the here and now, perhaps sometimes, somewhere, somehow, someone's life is made that little more bearable by our efforts.

"And perhaps, if we are to allow ourselves the vanity of optimism, perhaps in the future, someonewill thank us for those efforts. So, you see, it's worth getting that last order to the retail outlets by next Monday's deadline after all. (There was a group laugh and indeed sigh of relief, that Muriel had abandoned the metaphysical).

"In fact, that puts me in mind of a certain order that took a certain unexpected international cargo flight ..."

Muriel turned her speech to the half dozen, short anecdotes she had prepared and her audience was glad at last to be laughing in a knowing and familiar way at their own foibles and that the performance was now proceeding according to the expected programme. When she was done, and the last laughs had died away, and the round of heart-felt applause had clattered away like the flapping wings of a flock of migrating birds, Muriel thanked them all, some for being her friends and all for a large part of her life that of course she would miss greatly.

Then came the cutting of the cake, Muriel plying the knife and handing the first piece to her boss, who was almost tear-eyed as he bit into it and exclaimed its virtues as the finest carrot cake that had ever been presented in the tea-room of Wade and Willis. All praised the cake, and all came up to Muriel one at a time, or in twos and threes and asked her about her plans and wished her well. Then the alcohol began to flow and Muriel was less predominant as they all broke into groups and began discussing more general topics, Muriel spending the time with the people she knew the best. By eight thirty it was all over and Muriel, who had only had two glasses of white wine, was on her way home, her farewell gifts on the seat beside her, the heater on in the little car because the night was cool, and a feeling within her that she was driving nowhere, that she had been compelled to drive away, but that the road would run out before she got anywhere, would stop and there would be nothing and she would fall off the edge of the world into the vast and unnameable dark.

By ten thirty, later that night, Muriel was drunk, the cat curled up next to her on the sofa, the spirit bottle half empty as she sipped on another gin and tonic. What was she going to do? She was fifty seven years old, she still had _some_ money to pay on the mortgage, she had some money put aside, a pension scheme, but it would be difficult, her lifestyle would have to change. A lot. But so far all the CVs she had sent out had resulted in only ritualised rejection letters, it seemed that despite her skills and experience, the reality was you needed to "keep young and beautiful" if you wanted to be employed. What was she going to do? What?

If only ... if only Wade and Willis wasn't going under. If only she had moved on earlier. If only she had ... if only bloody Millicent Swainey had married bloody Roger Bannock! Yes! she thought. If only Cedric had married me! If only there had been no bloody Millicent. Bloody Millicent! Bloody bitch! She saw them on TV once, at some business meeting or other. Oh yes, Cedric had become quite the wise old sage in his middle age, she was always seeing him quoted in the paper about economics and what not. And when she saw him on TV that time, he looked ... he looked almost the same. Yes, almost just as handsome as when ... as when she had been so, so in love with him. And that was it wasn't it? She had never felt like that again, never. Not with Howie, not with Gilbert ... never. And it was her! All those years it had been her! That bloody Millicent!

If only he had married me, she thought once more. Think where I would be now. There, up on the hills, in that house, my own children, mine and Cedric's. She had thought about it, yes she had. If only it had been her, then there wouldn't be this ... all this ... Muriel suddenly had a vision of Millicent laughing and smiling, happy, so happy, happy all those years, and her ...

She thought back to when she had first seen Millicent and Cedric together in that damned photo. They had looked so ... perfectly matched. Yes, in fact, too perfectly matched. As if ... as if Cedric had placed an advertisement for a suitable wife, as if he was looking for an employee, a maid. 'Must be extremely beautiful, have good lineage and child bearing hips, must have squillions in the bank and smile and wave charmingly.' Yes, they were made for each other, weren't they ...

Suddenly Muriel could see it, like a panoramic play manifesting before her. What her life with Cedric would have been like. The luxury, the prestige, the comfort, the ease, and all of it – hollow. All of it just a turn upon the stage beneath hot lights and sweaty makeup, the smell of painted scenery and sawn wood, above her the black cavern of the roof and the curtains and the ropes, the pulleys, the oiled wheels that kept the illusion going, that made it real for the audience and real for her. For Cedric would never really have loved her, probably could never have loved her. And would all of those well-heeled blue-bloods ever have really accepted her, a common woman of little means and renown? Millicent was an expectation, was an actor trained from birth for the role. But had it been her, it would have been all an illusion as it was for Millicent. She would have been content with it all, she would have been proud, would have risen to the demands of her new found status, would have defiantly made the leap in class, and the world would never have known that it was all scripted, that Cedric was shallow and oh so arid-hearted.

Muriel took a sip of her drink then put it back down. She had had enough. She sighed to herself and her mind ran through the years as if it was passing over countryside seen from a great height, everything was clear but distant, it could not harm her now. She had been hurt by love, she had not found it again, but she had by chance, slipped past the bright silver net laid out to ensnare her. She thought, "I'm fifty seven and today was my last day. I don't know what I'm going to do, but I got away. I'm an escape artist." And she smiled.

* * *
The Misfits

I was clattering dishes around like tossed cymbals at the end of a Who gig and Joni Mitchell was on the stereo declaring herself to have been a _Free Man In Paris_ so I almost didn't hear the phone. I picked it up and it was Ed.

"That _Court and Spark_?" he said.

"Yeah."

"Bloody good album, eh?"

"Hang on, I'll just turn it down."

When I got back on the phone Ed asked me if I was ready for some good news. I said it would make a bloody change.

"We got the No Exit."

"Yer jokin'."

"Nah. It's a Wednesday night next week."

"Shit, that's great. Foot in the door sort of thing, eh?"

"Yeah ... well if it goes okay we might get a weekend."

"Yeah. What's it worth?"

"I haven't talked dollars yet but I think it might be door charge."

"Shit."

"Yeah ... but at least we're in there. And if we get a Friday and Saturday ... "

"Yeah ... true ... "

"Anyway ... I'll talk to you about it at practice. I better go before the boss comes back. How you goin' on _What's So Funny About Peace Love And Understanding_?"

"Oh well ... I've got most of it. I'll work the rest out this afternoon and photocopy the chord charts."

"Okay. Well ... I'll see you on Thursday night."

"Okay Ed. See yer later."

I did a little spin and snapped my fingers before I went back to the dishes. The No Exit Lounge was a good score, the best club in town. All the touring bands played there and we'd been trying to get a gig there for ages. Good on ya Ed I thought. I began to think about the songs that needed work, which originals we'd feature, about how many posters we'd need, who'd do the poster run, did I have spare strings ...

It was the best news we'd had for a while actually. Well ... since we started really. Ed and I formed the band at High School, the sixth form. It all seemed so simple then. The elixir of youth ran through our veins, ideas exploded from our minds and hearts, we knew all the major key barre chords - it was a matter of time and of right before we conquered the world. As it happened we had not yet succeeded in conquering the city of our birth but we had only just reached our early twenties and youth, naivety and determination was a potion we drank daily, a potion distilled from the four-four fountain.

Music, music, music. We thought it, we breathed it, we lived it. The day jobs didn't matter, everything was a means to an end. I think it was Freud who said that artists wanted fame, money and beautiful lovers, and ask any person in the street what drives a rock musician, that's probably what they'll tell you. But of course everybody wants fame, money and beautiful lovers, we wanted something else. We wanted that moment when the guitars sang sweeter than a violin, when the keyboards flowed like a thousand symphonies, when the bass and drums rolled around like solid thunder and the vocals, wailing and calling, from the heart. Five minds, one vision, the beautiful baby of the blues and its descendants, the beautiful beast of Rock and Roll.

So there we were, young, determined, learning all the while, and now we had taken a step forward with the Wednesday night at the No Exit Lounge. Of course we all had day jobs, you couldn't live on playing a Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, but I was 'currently between jobs' and was able to get busy with my guitar and the tape deck for the rest of the afternoon, working out _Peace Love and Understanding_ to add to our set, a new enthusiasm and impetus adding fuel to my fingers.

*

I stood on the stage and tuned my guitar for the second time. There was nothing wrong with it (a Fender Stratocaster, black bodied), I was just nervous as hell and wanted everything to be perfect. It was a quarter to eight and we were supposed to start at eight although the place was near enough to empty. The No Exit Lounge was a long rectangular place with a low roof. The walls were brick and lit by red lamps. In the centre of the room was the mixing desk controlling the sound, and at the back, rough, carved tables with soft candles glowing on them. You could buy coffee and cake but no alcohol, although some people brought wine. It was a unique experience to play a gig where the principal ambition of the audience was to listen to the music rather than get satisfactorily pasted and the band was an afterthought in the corner. I don't know, it seemed a strange combination, beer, whiskey and music, but there we are, most of the gigs were in the pubs.

The guitar ready, I went down the back where the rest of the band were gathered round a single candle in the centre of one of the tables. There was Ed - or "flying fingers" Ed - a swift and tasteful lead guitarist. He was tall and thin with those long, delicate fingers musicians sometimes have, longish black hair and a black moustache. Beside him sat his lady, Juliet, wearing a green crushed velvet dress with paisley patterns and flowers embroidered round the neck, her features fine, her eyes large and alert as always. Next to them was Tommy, the bass player, squat, brown haired, soft-eyed, broad shoulders and muscular arms, wearing Levis and black T-shirt. Next to him was Barney, the drummer, also well built, with blondish hair, a fine, gingery moustache and beard, a permanent grin on his face it seemed, and finally there was Jack the keyboard player, dressed in white corduroys and white T-shirt, even taller and thinner than Ed with dark hair and even darker eyes that had a satirical, melancholy cast to them. Together we were - The Misfits.

I sat down and sipped on my coffee. I wanted a cigarette but didn't want to upset my voice. At that moment about half a dozen people came in, a group all together and added their weight to the dozen or so who were already there, most at the tables, some on the floor, lulled by cushions and carpet, waiting for the live music to begin.

"It's almost a crowd," Ed said.

"It's only just past eight," Barney said. "There'll probably be a few after ten when the pubs close."

"Have you saved the heavier stuff for then?" Jack said.

"Yeah," I said. "Third set starts off with _White Room_ and finishes with _Like A Rolling Stone._ "

"Let's finish with an original," Tommy said. " _Sea Of Eternity_."

"I don't know ... " I said. "They won't know it."

"That's okay," Ed said. "I mean, this is our chance to play some of them."

"Let's start with an original too," Tommy said. "What's first?"

" _Knockin' On Heaven's Door_ ," I said.

"Let's do _Rockin' Away_ ," Tommy said.

"Yeah," said Ed. "We might as well switch them round."

"I dunno," I said. " _Rockin' Away_ might be better second. It might throw them starting with one of ours. You can warm up on Heaven's Door."

" _Rockin' Away's_ laid back," Ed said.

"I think you should," Juliet said. "It would make a nice change to start with an original."

"Okay," I said. "Majority rules." I looked at my watch. It was five past. "Righto chaps. Let us play some of the Devil's rock and roll music."

We took the stage. Juliet and eighteen strangers out of the night had gathered to hear us. Perhaps they had seen the posters, perhaps they had heard the radio ads, perhaps they had planed to go to the No Exit Lounge on Wednesday night regardless. Anyway, there was a band, there was an audience, the instruments were tuned, in our minds was the benefit of long hours of rehearsal and refinement, we began to play. They applauded after the first number, _Rockin' Away_. Always a good sign that it's sounding right. If they don't applaud the first number than you know you've got your work cut out for you. Plus of course Ed wrote the music and I wrote the lyrics so it somehow became real at such a moment.

When you sit in the lounge or the bedroom, dicing and splicing chords together on an acoustic guitar, arranging and shaping the words to merge with the melody, you think you might have captured something, like a sliver of starlight in a jar, but until you show it to someone, until it's shared ... well, I mean, if a song is sung by one and never heard by another, does it really exist? Surely part of the point of art is communication?

We finished the first set with Dire Straits' _Water of Love_ and it got a good response, a couple of ladies even got up to dance. By then another dozen or so people had drifted in and the place was about half full. We were feeling pleased with ourselves as we sat down around one of the tables reserved for us. We had coffees and those that smoked lit up. I resisted once again. It was then Ed said the words that were to begin a journey for the members of the Misfits into the soul of rock and roll (should such a thing exist), a journey to the heart and heartland of their country, and a journey taking them closer to the centre of themselves. A short journey, but an adventure nonetheless.

"I have some more good news." We brightened. There was Van Morrison on the sound system in the background singing _Crazy Love_ , there were smiling faces and laughter, the rise and fall of conversation, the air was warm, candlelit and scented with exotic coffees, we looked at Ed in expectation.

"I think I might have us a record deal." It was like little sparks flashing between us all as our eyes met each others. Of words such as these our dreams were made.

"It's not much," Ed went on. The sparks faded a little, dropped to the floor, fizzled. "You know Greg Hamilton?"

"He runs Daedalus Discs doesn't he? The second hand record place?" Tommy said.

"Yeah," said Ed. "He's thinking about starting up a label and I played him our demo tape. He likes the originals and he'd like to talk to us about being first on the label. To put out a single."

"A single ... " said Tommy as if the word was new to him.

"Who's going to pay for it?" Barney said.

"He'll pay for the studio, the pressing and the distribution," Ed said.

"That's not bad," Jack said.

"Not bad ... that's bloody great," I said. "I don't suppose he could be talked into making an album?"

"No," said Ed. "He's just testing the waters, it's all new to him though he's got some idea. Maybe if the single sells."

"A single eh ... " said Barney. "We should make a video to go with it."

"A video ... " said Tommy as if this word was also new to him.

"We could think about it," Ed said. "Though God knows how we'd pay for it."

"My friend Lisa knows someone who does short films," Juliet said. "She might be interested."

"Yeah. That's a possibility," Ed said.

"Which song?" I said. "Did he say which song he liked?"

"No," said Ed. "He says it's up to us, but I think we should pick something that would get some airplay."

" _Up In Heaven_ ," Barney said. "Good and rocky."

"No," I said. " _Rockin' Away's_ kind of easy listening. We'd get more mileage out of that."

"What about _Sea of Eternity_?" Jack said. "We all like that one."

"It's six minutes long," I said.

"So?" said Jack.

"It wouldn't be because two of that six minutes is a keyboard solo?" Barney said and everybody grinned.

"No, it's the great drumming," Jack said. "That's why people buy records, to listen to the drums." Barney just half snorted and grinned. "No really. It'd make a great track," Jack said.

"Nah, Cory's right," Ed said. "It's too long. Nobody'd play it. Four minutes max."

We continued to argue until it was time to do the next set. We all felt a burgeoning sense of excitement. It was good to argue over what your first single should be. It felt like we had begun a journey that had a destination, even if the destination wavered and occasionally disappeared in the haze of the everyday world. A single. A video. It seemed more than real and the next two sets went by like lightning, all of us pouring our heart and soul into the originals, trying to make those thirty or so people see what we saw, hear what we heard.

We finished the night, tearing down the walls with an all out rendition of _All Along The Watchtower_ , with Ed's fingers flying and his echo unit on, the guitar scintillating and crying like a beast, Jack's keyboards like a mighty river flowing through the whole of it, me giving my vocals the all and the rhythm section locked in tight to it, eyes fixed on each other as they worked as one. The crowd seemed to appreciate it and two or three people called out for one more, but it wasn't generally taken up and we decided it wasn't going to get any better than that last burn up. The gig was over, the Misfits had played the No Exit Lounge and we all lay down that night with dreams of slim grooves circling black vinyl.

*

The recording studio was about the size of a matchbox but it was sixteen tracks and that was album quality. The more tracks, the more instruments you can lay down, the more overdubs, the more separation, the more clarity. The early rock and roll tracks were done on two track and four track to give you some idea. The place was crowded with the band, the instruments, the engineer, Greg, Juliet - it was more like an obstacle course with wires, microphones, boom stands, guitar stands, drum kit, amplifiers - we hardly had anywhere to stand. But stepping into the control room was like stepping into the future. A sixteen track mixing desk, effects units, sub-mixers, luminous green, red and yellow lights, red switches, black switches \- it was like finding yourself on the deck of some alien spacecraft, you felt you could push a button and go anywhere in the universe.

Greg stood in the control room, lanky with ginger hair and longish sideburns, a black leather jacket, conveying the air that he had done all this a thousand times before and chatting knowledgeably with the engineer. We bustled about, happy that for forty dollars an hour we could record our dream on the two inch silver-black tape that stood waiting in the grey metal spools. It took an age to mike up the drums and get them sounding right as it always does, but at last we got underway.

I had won out in the end, and after a slip of paper vote (which included Juliet), _Rockin' Away_ was chosen as the A-side of the single, and _Sea of Eternity_ as the B-side. We got down to it and after about four hours and maybe a dozen takes the backing tracks were there. Then Ed overdubbed some rhythm guitar tracks, to fill it out and then proceeded to do the solo or lead break. It was at this point we struck the only real glitch of the day.

The cue for the solo came and Ed started playing. I'd never heard anything like it. Maybe it was because this recording was real, going to result in solid vinyl, that people were going to hear it, I don't know, but Ed played a blistering, what Barney would later call, "a life threatening solo," the guitar flashing and singing, a solo that just seemed destined for the song. Just the right feel, every press of his fingers and pluck of the strings perfectly measured. When the track ended we let out a collective sigh of appreciation. Then Greg crushed us all.

"Okay Ed," he said. "Ready when you are."

"Whaddya mean?" said Ed. "That was it."

"No," said Greg. "That was the playback. It was a rehearsal."

"A what!"

"We didn't say 'rolling'," Greg said. "It was just the playback."

"Fuck!" Ed didn't smash his guitar, although I could see he was thinking about it, but a Gibson Les Paul Custom is an expensive and beautiful machine and only a Philistine would wreck it. We all went over it and Greg was in the right. The engineer hadn't called 'rolling,' in fact he'd said it was the playback of a rehearsal, that it wasn't recording, we just hadn't been listening. Anyway, Ed did the solo again, but of course it wasn't as good. It was good, it was excellent, but somewhere out there, heading through the stratosphere and into illimitable space were the notes of the perfect solo, never to be heard by mortal ears again.

_Sea of Eternity_ was simple by comparison. We did it more as a jam, giving it a kind of free-form feel and got it all down in one piece by the third take. Then the rest of the afternoon was my world, with headphones on, putting down the vocals for both tracks, with Ed and Jack doing harmonies, striving for that perfect pitching, intonation and of course - with 'feeling.'

By the time we got to the mix-down it was getting late. The air was blue shadowed with cigarette smoke, half-empty beer bottles stood monument like atop the black amplifiers, the tables and chairs were strewn with empty hamburger cartons and the odd cold chip had found its way onto the floor. But at last we were done and we all crowded into the control room to hear our sixteen tracks mixed down onto two, to stereo.

The guitars began the track, the keyboards followed, and the bass and drums weighed in;

I got fifty cents in my pocket

And nothin' in my soul

Guess I'll hit the highway

For one more shot of rock and roll

I'm goin' where the people are kind

Wtih a peaceful state of mind

And all the days are smiling

Like a gentle taste of wine

Rockin' awa - y

Rockin' to another place

Rockin' awa - y

Rockin' out of time and space.

When it was finished we listened straightaway to _Sea of Eternity_ ;

Silver sun shines softly on the waters of my mind

You are there beside me and your smile is always kind

I reach up to the sky to catch the seagull's lonely cry

Tears of joy are falling as our thoughts begin to fly

Old songs of our sorrows lie scattered by the light

You and I are laughing as our fears fade out of sight

All of our tomorrows silver dream

All of our tomorrows emerald stream

All of our tomorrows diamond flame

All of our tomorrows ruby rain.

When it was finished we listened to them again. We smiled at each other, we shook Greg's hand, we shook the engineer's hand. We had caught something, something quicksilver and luminous, it was captured in magnetic particles and spinning reels, we felt it was soulful, that it was heartfelt, it was us. We were happy.

*

Four weeks later the times 'were a-changing' for The Misfits. We had reached the turning point - go on as we were, or go full time. We had a council of war round at Ed's flat one night and eventually decided to offer ourselves as cannon fodder in the trenches of the rock and roll dream. After quaffing much ale and a general aura of bravado such as might be found amongst any group of young men about to throw their lives away on some senseless campaign, the decision was taken. Barney was the least keen - he worked for a prestigious company and was pulling down good money, he had the most to lose - but in the end he acquiesced, drawn along by the current of camaraderie and air of adventure.

The single was due out the next week and Greg had promised to go all-out to get the radio stations, magazines and newspapers interested. We, for our part, had made a video to go with the single. A simple affair, consisting in the main of shots of us playing outdoors at the local rubbish tip, (it was supposed to be a comment on the consumer society or something), while the protagonist of the piece, played by Jack, hitch-hiked his way around New Zealand and encountered bikies, farmers, deer-hunters and surf maniacs.

So there we were, standing in a cool southerly wind, miming to the same song, over and over again for six hours with the scent of society's discarded cabbage, chicken bones, banana skins, TVs, fridges, washing machines and last season's shoes filling my mouth and nose. We paid for it with gig money we'd saved and the guys who filmed it did a pretty good job on a shoestring budget. I thought the video turned out quite well, although we couldn't afford to put it all on film stock which gave a much better grain and texture, making it seem more real somehow, compared to video tape.

Everything was falling into place, but the real clincher to set us off 'on the road' was that TV had agreed to show the video. The Misfits were to enter into the homes of the nation and their music assail the ears of impressionable youth. What could stop us now? The tour was booked, jobs left, equipment procured and hired, posters printed - The Misfits were coming. We were to set off on a Wednesday morning and on the Sunday night before, they were showing our video, and not only that, one of the local radio stations had programmed the single and were going to add it to their playlist. So we all gathered again at Ed's, to party, to celebrate, watch the video and hear the song on the radio.

There was quite a crowd. There was all the band, Greg of course, Juliet, various people who had worked on or been in the video and several friends besides. The wine, beer and spirits flowed, there was talk of life on the road, of album deals, of Australia and further afield - it seemed when the magic medium of television and radio sent you out to the people in electromagnetic waves, anything was possible. So it was at last, the programme came on and after the obligatory big overseas acts the presenter announced us.

" ... A kick-arse rock and roll band ... " (We cheered) " ... signed to up and coming label Daedalus Discs ... " (Greg cheered) "... Their first hot single showing heaps of potential ... _Rockin' Away_ ... " We cheered once more and then there it was on national television, my song, Ed's song, pouring out of the TV and into the arms of the world. Our baby had grown wings and flown. As the last chord died away they cut immediately to a deodorant advertisement and the spell was broken. But it had happened. _Rockin' Away_ had come to life, had lived and breathed, had been heard. I went over to Ed and shook his hand.

"Good on ya mate," I said.

"Right back at ya bro'," he said, his grin the widest I'd ever seen on him. "And the best is yet to come. They'll be playing it on the radio soon."

"What time?"

"Oh, ah ... three oh six a.m."

"Three? Three in the morning?"

"Yeah." Ed looked a little apologetic. "It's on low rotate. They're going to play it between midnight and six a.m."

"Well ... " I said. "Better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick." Still I was somewhat disappointed. I began to imagine who might be listening at three in the morning - lonely insomniacs sitting in their tartan dressing gowns drinking a melancholy gin and tonic, portly taxi-drivers waiting in the red-light district for another drunken businessman in town and off the chain, factory workers on the night-shift, extruding plastic into clothes-baskets, the music barely audible above the machines ...

At three o'clock we gathered round the radio. By then most of the party had dispersed. In fact it was just the band, Juliet and Greg, but we jollied each other along and waited impatiently for the news and weather to finish. Then there was the station call sign, and then straightaway it was us. We listened, thinking about it being carried on the air of the night, our images and imaginings coursing through black space, across the minds of those who lay dreaming, through walls, through doors, houses, to fall at last upon silicon and copper, to be converted once more into music, our music. The song finished. The DJ came on.

"That was _Rockin' Away_ by up and comers, The Misfits. Can't say I've ever heard of them but there we are, we'll play anything. Now here's Elvis Costello ... "

We looked at each other. It was as if as one we decided to ignore the DJ's acerbic aside and we all smiled in a certain sense of triumph. Our song had been on TV, was being played on the radio, the road beckoned - the vapour of the dream was thin indeed but it was intoxicating and little was needed to inspire us. There could be no doubt. The Misfits would rule.

*

Breathing the air in the first motel we checked into was like eating a stale piece of cake. Everything about it was stale - the water tasted stale, the complimentary coffee was stale, and the dim lights shone on the faded pink, threadbare candlewick bedspreads like a choleric stain. We had three beds between the five of us, so two of us would be on the floor later that night. The journey up was less than a luxury cruise with three of us in the front seat of the van and two of us jammed in, knees against chins, behind the equipment. We took turns at what we called "assuming the position" and sitting up front and driving. We had fish and chips for lunch and unfortunately the pub where we were playing offered nothing save cold meat pies so we opted for fish and chips again for dinner. We desultorily ate our way through soggy chips and flaccid battered fish.

"So this is it then," said Barney. "Life on the road."

"Get this down you," Jack said, tossing him a can of beer. "You'll soon feel enthusiastic. Or failing enthusiasm, there's always inebriation." Jack popped the tab on a can.

"Don't get too attached to those cans," Ed said. "Let's wrap this party up ladies because we have to set up and I'm not hauling those P.A. bins by myself."

"It's only six thirty Ed," I said. "What time are we supposed to start?"

"Eight. But I want to relax and have a beer before we play."

"Don't sweat it Ed," I said. "I'll help move the bins. But somebody else can pack them down."

Setting up and packing down. It was the worst part of it in some ways. Rock and roll music is a complex scientific process, using state of the art technology to produce the simplest to the most esoteric sounds - it takes a lot of cleverly designed amplification and electronic equipment, and it's very expensive and a lot of it is bloody heavy. The Public Address system (P.A.), consisted of two large 'bin' speakers, with a 'horn', or treble speaker, on each, power amplifiers and mixing desk, plus screeds of cables. Then there were the guitar speaker cabinets and amplifiers, the effects units (phasing, flanging, chorus, reverberation, echo, distortion, overdrive etc), the drums, cymbals, mike stands ... it took forever to set it up and get it sounding just right, and the small town pub we were in this night had no back door, so everything had to be carted through the public bar and to the back of the lounge bar. It was quite physically demanding but you got used to it, until you were rich and famous and could afford roadies.

It was while we were setting up, a few ghost-like patrons, in ones or twos, keeping the brewery coffers ticking over until the Friday night party-night crowd arrived later, when the manager came up to us. He was rotund but tall, wearing a blue and white checked shirt, had black hair and thick black moustache, and seemed to have a pronounced alcohol blush to the cheeks.

"How's it going boys?" he said.

"Great," said Ed. "We'll soon be good to go."

"Good on ya. Well ... the story is, the first pint's free for the band and you pay after that. You're on from eight till nine and then we've got a local lad, Sammy Breeze ... that's his stage name ... you heard of him? No ... well, he's going to do a few numbers then it's back to you lads to round off the night. Okay?"

"I don't quite understand," Ed said, stopping unravelling a cable and putting his hands on his hips.

"About what?"

"About this Sammy Breeze ... I mean are we supposed to back him or what? I mean, without a rehearsal ... "

"No, no," said the manager. "He'll just put his backing tape on and sing along to it. But I mean, it's all right if he uses your gear isn't it? That's what we usually do."

"I suppose so," said Ed, glancing round at the rest of us. "I mean ... you didn't mention it when I booked the gig. We've got our own show worked out you know."

"It's no problem," said the manager. "He does every second Friday. The punters love him and he'll only be on for about half an hour ... the rest's up to you. Anyway ... that's the story. I'll leave you to it and Ernie'll fix you up at the bar."

He strode off, the master of all he surveyed, greeting as he went the ghosts who sat waiting for the evening's festivities to begin.

We were uneasy about sharing the gig with an unknown quantity named Sammy Breeze, but there didn't seem to be much choice. When we took the stage (I say stage, but we all had to be damned careful the whole night no-one got concussed by the head of an errant guitar), the place was near enough to full, full being forty or fifty people. It was a low slung room with a deep blue carpet and orangey lights around the walls, set dim, one of those prints of the painting of the topless 'dusky maiden' hanging above the bar. The roof was overcast with a thin haze of Rothmans and Pall Mall cigarette smoke, the scent of musky perfumes mingled with the odour of beer, both fresh and spilled, and a babble of voices, catcalls and the occasional shrieking laugh coagulated in the air.

I introduced us, asked them all how they were doing, told them we were from down south and 'on tour' (they didn't seem impressed) and we began to play. They clapped politely after the first couple of numbers and then just seemed to listen or turn back to their conversations, raising their voices slightly to talk over us. We ended the set to a smattering of applause and stepped off the stage.

At that moment a short, dark-haired man, about fortyish, cheeks a little pudgy, wearing black trousers, white shirt and a black jacket, a kind of bouncing swing in his step, came up to me and thrust his hand out. I took it as he spoke.

"How's it going mate? Sammy Breeze. Did the manager speak to you?"

"Yeah. He said you were going to do a few numbers or something."

"Yeah, it's nothing much. Just a few golden oldies. Cabaret kind of thing. The regulars get into it, you know?"

"Right ... well, I'll show you where the tape deck is and get you set up. You can use my mike if you like."

"Great. Good one. Liked your set by the way. You guys have got your chops together."

"Thanks." I showed him the tape deck which we ran through the P.A. for background music during our breaks and by the time I got to the table Sammy was at the mike ready to go.

"G'dday and how the hell are you all doin'?" Sammy yelled, taking the mike in one hand and swinging the chord with the other.

"Good on ya Sammy!"

"Go for it Sammy!"

"Yeeahhoo!" came the cries from the patrons and the atmosphere was suddenly charged as if all the alcohol that by now had been consumed was carrying a current and Sammy had closed a switch. The backing music began.

" _The old home town looks the same_ ... " Patrons began to chime in and by the time he got to the chorus the whole pub was singing along. " _Yes they'll all come to meet me ..._ " and then the last few words; " _... as they lay me 'neath, the green, green, gra - ss, of ho - me._ " The crowd went crazy.

"Good on ya Sammy!"

"You beauty!"

"Give us another."

"Better than that other bloody rubbish."

Sammy didn't let them down. _Cheryl Moana Marie, Please Release Me, Why Why Why Delilah_ , and he ended with _Down on the Corner_. He had a good voice, I gave him that, a real belter, and his backing tracks weren't too bad although it was easy to tell it was a drum machine. We looked at each other as the crowd cheered him off the stage. I don't know if we were bemused, amused, or bewildered. Ed took a drag on his cigarette and flicked ash into the circular ashtray built into the centre of the table.

"Well ... I liked it," he said and gave a sly smile. "But is it art?"

Barney began to laugh and we all had a bit of a chuckle. We sat and sipped our pints for a few moments until it was time to go back on.

"What's in the next set?" Ed said before we began again.

"Mostly originals," I said.

"Let's do something else," Ed said. "I don't think it's the right moment for originals. Let's do the rock and roll medley."

The others agreed and we got back up and without hesitation launched into _Blue Suede Shoes,_ then proceeded to travel all the way from _Maybelline_ to _Johnny B. Goode_. It did the trick. the locals took to their feet and began tearing up the dance floor. Most of them stayed on their feet till the end of the bracket. When we did the last set we thought to hell with it and just played more fifties rock and roll songs with a couple of newbies thrown in like _Proud Mary_ and _Lyin' Eyes._

At one point, a particularly drunken local got a chant going for us to play _The Rivers of Babylon_. I could hear Jack muttering "bugger that" over in his corner, but we relented and had a bash at it, having never worked it out or played it before. We did play the single though. The very last number. Nobody seemed to take much notice of it.

By the end of the night, when they rang the last drinks bell, the patrons were drunk and happy and we were just going along for the ride. They turned the lights up and we sat down to have a pint and let the intoxicant of performance seep out of our bloodstream and calm our excited nerves, still ringing like strummed guitar strings. Sammy came and sat with us for a bit. He was actually quite a character. It seemed he'd been in a rock and roll band in the late fifties and early sixties and had done a wild tour with a couple of groups we'd heard of. He was mainly there because it was his wife's hometown and she didn't like the city.

Finally we staggered back to the motel and drank away the hours, telling bad jokes and trying to make the whole thing more celebratory than we felt. But it was done and we were mostly happy. We had played our first gig as a full-time band. We were 'on the road.' It was rock and roll.

But as I lay drifting off to sleep in the early hours of the morning, I couldn't help but see Sammy as a young man on a faraway stage, distant dreams drawing him towards a bright shining sky, and then, just before I slipped away, I saw him again as he had just been, smelt the dark sweet odour of spilt beer and heard once again a voice muttering " ... bloody rubbish."

*

The next few towns on was a small sized city and the venue was somewhat more upmarket than the previous places. As we drew near to it we even observed one or two posters advertising the gig. Even the motel was quite luxurious by comparison. As we set up, we had high hopes for the night. We had spent some time that afternoon listening to the local radio station, hoping to catch a hint of _Rockin' Away_ , but the airwaves were bereft of the music of the Misfits. Anyway, the place seemed somewhat classier than those we had seen thus far \- it had a sizeable, polished dance floor, a reasonable sized stage (Ed would be safe from concussion this night), and a kind of upgraded, seventies decor with a large bar bedecked with chrome and mirrors. To the left of the stage was a dining area where the patrons were partaking of buffet slices of ham and pineapple speckled coleslaw.

Around eight the place was about half full and we got started, leading off with a laid back, soft rock version of _Light My Fire_. The first set went all right, a smattering of applause here and there, but I couldn't help noticing off to my left, in the dining room, a middle-aged gentleman who kept waving out to me and putting his fingers in his ears during every song. At the end of the bracket we sat down at our table to soothe our throats with beer and poison our systems with cigarettes and we were feeling pretty comfortable when the middle-aged gentleman came over. He was what I would describe as a 'dyed in the wool' conservative - blue shirt and silver cufflinks, charcoal grey trousers, a florid face with greyed hair receding, and thick specs on quite a large, red-veined nose.

"Which one of you is the leader?" he said.

"No-one in particular," Ed said. "What can we do you for?"

"Well ... " the man said, turning and pointing towards the dining area. "My wife and my brother-in-law and his wife are trying to have a quiet meal and your music, if that's what you call it, is disturbing our conversation. So we'd like you to turn it down."

"Well, it's not really that loud," Ed said with a forced smile, (the crack about the music hadn't slipped by us). "And I'm afraid we're here to entertain the patrons." He gestured towards the rest of the bar. "Nobody else is complaining."

The man looked a little ruffled and his face flushed a deeper shade.

"What do you call yourselves?" he said.

"The Misfits," Ed said.

"Suits you," said the man with a grunt. "But I mean, what is it that you call this? Are you musicians, what?"

"Obviously we're musicians," Ed said with a smile around the table as he flicked ash from his cigarette. "And ... artistes."

"Art!" said the man with a half laugh. "I wouldn't call it music even. It's certainly not art."

"Yes it is," said Ed, rising to the challenge. "And we're helping to create and contributing to the culture of this country."

"Culture!" said the man with a snort. "That's not bloody culture."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

The man decided to try a different tack. "Why don't you get yourselves real jobs? What use is all this palavah? What use is all the racket you make? What's your so-called art good for?"

Ed swung round in his seat and faced the man. "You see those people out there? They're listening and they're enjoying. Music is the heartbeat of the universe my friend and it brings life to life. That's what we're doing. We're uplifting them, we're inspiring them. It'd be a bloody cold, dull, drab sort of world without art."

"But what you're doing's not art."

"Yes it is."

"Well ... whatever you call it, I want you to turn it down or I'm going to have to speak to the manager."

"You do that."

The man huffed off towards the bar and Ed arched his eyebrows at us. We didn't think too much of it, nobody else had complained. In the end it was all sorted when the manager, the man and Ed had a conference and the manager shifted the man and his party to a table at the far end of the dining room. The manager said not to worry about it. He wasn't concerned about the volume and the rest of the punters were perfectly happy. The man and his party finished their meals and left about half way through the second set and when we played _I Shot The Sheriff_ at the end of the bracket Ed dedicated the song to him.

The rest of the night was straightforward. We played the covers and a fair helping of originals. The punters got up to dance, the breweries were vastly enriched, jokes were made and tales were told, but whether at the end of it we had, as Ed put it, uplifted or inspired anyone I couldn't say. Besides, our hearts and minds were really on the next gig, the biggie of the tour.

It was at the university in the city just up the line. We were to play support for a band called The Raging Scarlets, meaning we warmed up their crowd for half an hour before they played. They were famous. They were stars. They were all over the TV and the radio and their single, _Be In My Dreams_ , had spent three weeks at number one.

We were looking forward to getting away from the bars and the tiny stages and the requests for _The Boys Are Back In Town_ and playing an actual concert-like format (although of course there would be alcohol available, this was the land of 'rugby, horse racing and beer' after all). So it was, that when we packed down that night it was with a sense of expectation and hope that the uni gig would be a step somewhere, could even be a defining moment when we laid out our pearls, our songs, upon our tray in the market-place, our carefully crafted jewels, our lyrics and our melodies, for the judgement of the rock and roll enthusiasts, the true believers.

*

It was just after dusk and we were all crammed into the van with about forty miles to go before we reached the city and the big uni gig. It was a fine night, the stars low on the turquoise-orange horizon blazed like distant silver spotlights, a sallow crescent moon wreathed in luminous streamers of cloud hugged the eastern hills and the mood in the van was one of optimism and excitement.

"We might blow them off the stage," Barney was saying.

"Or they might blow us away," Tommy said.

"Do you think their management will be there?" Barney said. "Maybe we should speak to them. Give them a copy of the single?"

"We're only on for half an hour," Jack said. "There probably won't be anyone there then. They'll be getting drunk and waiting for the Scarlets to come on."

"It's all originals isn't it?" Barney said.

"Yep," I said. "Seven songs, our finest creations. Starting with the single and we'll go out with _Sea of Eternity_ , wind it up a bit."

"Let's double it in length," Jack said. "That'd get their backs up. I can see the headlines now - Wannabes Refuse To Yield Stage To Stars. Critics Say It's Not Art."

We were laughing when there was a cry of "shit!" from Ed at the wheel and at the same moment he slammed on the brakes and the tyres screeched and the gear and everybody and everything crashed forward. In the midst of it was a horrible thumping, rending noise from the front. We piled out into the still dispersing rubber smoke and rising cloud of steam and saw the problem. We had hit a sheep.

"Jesus!" Ed exclaimed over the body of the lifeless beast. "Jesus bloody Christ!"

"It's done the radiator in," Tommy said, inspecting the damage. "I don't think we're going anywhere in this thing."

"A sheep!" Ed exclaimed at this announcement, raising his hands in the air. "A bloody sheep! Where else in the world would you be buggered by a bloody sheep!"

"There was a garage in the last town," I said. "I think it was still open."

"It must be ten miles back," Jack said. "By the time we walk it we'll miss the gig."

"Anyway ... " said Ed. "Let's get the sheep out of the way and get the van onto the side of the road."

We hoisted the sheep off the road and pushed the van out of the way. We stood around in the cooling evening, cursing our luck, running through various possibilities of how the problem might be solved, feeling the big gig edging out of reach with each passing moment. It had been more or less decided that Jack and Tommy would walk and hitch hike back to the garage and see what help they could offer when a rough looking Ford Falcon utility, piled high with bits of four by two timber, skill-saws, rolls of wire mesh and various assorted tools skidded to a stop beside us, raising a cloud of dust that drifted through its headlights. The door opened and a checked red bush-shirt clad, ginger bearded man of bulky stature appeared and approached us. Even in the low glow from the ambient headlights and soft red of tail-lights I couldn't help but notice he had the blackest, grimiest nails I had ever seen and his shirt-sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were completely covered in dark, blue and green tattoos.

"How's it goin'?" he said.

"Not too good," Ed said.

"What happened?" the man said.

"Hit a sheep," Ed said.

"Jesus," said the man and spat on the ground. "That's the bloody bum's rush."

"Yeah," said Ed.

"How bad's the damage?" the man said, walking over to the van.

"There's a hole in the radiator," Tommy said. "We've lost about half of the water."

"Let's have a look." The man lifted up the bonnet and peered by the dim light at the cause of our consternation, his tattooed arms delving into the depths of the engine. "Jeez, bit of a bastard, eh?" he said at length. "But I reckon I can fix it. Got some Selley's sealant in the ute, it'll get you goin' again. How far you headed?"

We told him of our plight, the pending gig, a brief history of the tour while he clattered about in the ute and clattered about in the engine of the van, saying "oh yeah?" every now and then as we told him our tale. After about half an hour it was done.

"Well, I reckon that'll hold you," the man said. "There's the Tuariki Stream about two miles up. All you gotta do is stop there and top her up. Take some water with you in case she starts to leak, but I reckon she'll get you there."

We thanked him profusely and offered him beer which he wouldn't accept and then once the van was started and everyone once again hopeful, he wished us luck for the gig, got back in the ute and with a blast of _'La Kookaracha'_ on his horn hove out of sight in the thin line of traffic. Two miles up the road, with the temperature gauge rising, we used empty beer bottles to get the water, got back on the road and said a silent prayer to whichever saint watched over travelling rock musicians to bring us safely to the waiting stage and for the Selley's to hold fast.

*

Two hours or so later we were on stage at the university, tuned up, taut-nerved and ready to go. The handiwork of our tattooed friend had held firm and the van, with stops to replenish the radiator, had brought us safely into the Big Smoke, but it would need a permanent repair before it got us home again. They had held the gig up, waiting for us to arrive but in the end we were only about half an hour late going on.

The hall was large, with a mezzanine floor running all the way round it. The crowd numbered about five or six hundred, and the place looked full. There was an air of expectant static, there was the sound of the pre-concert music, pounding through the large P.A. system, there was the scent of sweat and excitement, the odour of an event, as if something revelatory was about to happen, as if collectively we would reach epiphany and transcend. The blue and indigo spotlights stabbed into my eyes. Then, in the next moment it was all happening - the music from the P.A. cut out, we were announced, and before I could say anything Barney was tapping his drumsticks together for the count-in to _Rockin' Away_.

I could tell straightaway it was a mistake. It was too slow, these people wanted to 'rock' as they say. It was there and gone in a minute. There was virtually no reaction from the crowd, in fact as I glanced quickly at their faces I detected an air of hostility, as I surveyed their black eyes and folded arms I got the sense that we weren't really welcome. We ploughed on, I barely had time to introduce each number before we launched into it but by the time we got to _Sea of Eternity_ I knew it was all to no avail.

In fact I could hear a chant form the back of the crowd - "boring, boring." We staggered on but we were an intrusion, we were an anachronism. To the crowd, the music we had written had already been replaced, had been swept away by a rising tide of a new musical ethos, a sound that was not new, but seemed in its spirit and its energy to be new, and, therefore, better. I realised as we did the extended ending on _Sea of Eternity_ , with Barney rolling round on the drums, that the crowd saw us as old hat, they wanted the Raging Scarlets and we were in the way.

We wandered off the stage to the sound of a few spasmodic claps and one or two catcalls and even a boo or two. We went past the Raging Scarlets' dressing room and I caught a glimpse of them. I thought they just looked scared. They obviously weren't relishing facing such a hostile crowd. Back in the dressing room, we all stood about dazed as if we had just run through no-man's land with the whirr of bullets by our ears and the crack and flash of explosives stunning us. I looked at the others.

"Am I imagining things," I said. "Or did they hate us?"

"Don't worry about it," Ed said as he lit up a cigarette. "They've just been kept waiting and they've only come to see the Scarlets anyway. How many people have you ever heard compliment the support band after a concert?"

We all concurred but it was a disappointment after some of the rat-traps we had played to have the prestige gig be so ... how shall I put it? ... unappetising. Still, we went out and watched the Raging Scarlets from the back of the crowd. Their fears were groundless - they could do no wrong. But we had to admit they were quite good, their songs memorable although more 'commercial' than ours and when they played _Be In My Dreams_ the roof was raised, the floor was shaking and the crowd achieved the ecstatic release it had come for. The Scarlets left the stage unafraid, heroic, and The Misfits were forgotten.

*

Back home, a month or so later, I got a phone call from Ed. He said he wanted to see me. He came round an hour or so later and we sat in armchairs, beers in hand and Bob Dylan's _Blood On The Tracks_ on the stereo.

" ... so Juliet's old man's got this friend who's looking for someone to help him out in his business," Ed was saying. "It's mine if I want it. It's bloody good money and I really need the bread."

"So you'll take it then?" I said.

"Looks like it."

"What about Barney and Tommy?"

"It looks like the cabaret thing's a goer. Tommy said Bryce and his rhythm section are definitely leaving so they can have it if they want it. I mean ... you can't blame them. It's one of the best residencies in town and the dosh is good. They're taking Jack with them."

"So that's it then? The Misfits nevermore."

"Looks like it."

"I can't quite believe it," I said. "I can still remember that first practice ... "

"Well ... " said Ed. "It's like ... a roller coaster ride. You rise steadily up that first slope, then in the next instant you're plunging down at a hundred miles an hour. It's all excitement and thrills for a few minutes, but before you know it, it's all over and you're back on the ground again. We got on the roller coaster, but ... well, they just couldn't hear it, that's all. They just couldn't hear what we hear. It's not our fault."

"Yeah ... maybe. So ... does this mean you're giving up?"

"No. I don't think so. Taking a different tack maybe. A different approach. What about you?"

"I don't know."

The conversation was no surprise. They had played our video once on TV, only three radio stations around the country had programmed _Rockin' Away_. No newspapers or magazines had really given us any coverage except for the Kiwi Beat, which had given us about two paragraphs. Greg had done his best to promote the single but quite a few of the record stores weren't interested in stocking it and in the final tally it had only sold about a hundred and twenty seven copies. Plus we had lost money on the tour. By the time we added up P.A. hire, van hire, lighting hire and gas and other expenses, we owed about two and a half thousand dollars.

When Ed left later that night I sat with a beer and a cigarette and thought over everything that had happened. The nights in the motels, the bad food, the stream of small town pubs, the endless rows of wooden houses with their short lawns and their concrete driveways, the khaki hills and the green-brown bush rushing by, the smell of beer and fish and chips, the parade of faces gathered out of the night in public houses, like supplicants in some ancient rite ...

What was I to do? I thought of various possibilities, several different directions, but none seemed to quite satisfy. I stood up, I went to the record collection. I took out a Jimi Hendrix album and put it on the stereo, winding up the volume. As _Stone Free_ reverberated around the room, I grabbed pen and paper, sat down and began to compose an advertisement for the next Saturday paper.

"Wanted. Enthusiastic musicians to form full-time band. Glory not guaranteed ... "

* * *
The Ballad of Staunch

It was the summer of endless white light, of heat bouncing off the concrete porch and shimmering the air in hot waves, it was the summer of possibilities, the summer of what might have been. I was seventeen and I was free. I stood upon the porch of the old duck-blue weatherboard house and considered my future. Or rather, refused to consider it.

Incandescent clouds hung low and torpid in the sharp cut blue sky, resting their flat solid bases on the shoulders of the distant indigo hills. The sun was a fireball, lancing into my eyes and searing my skin. The air was aromatic with the smell of fresh cut grass, my father having disciplined the parched khaki lawn with the swift blade of a Morrison mower that started on the third try, putting paid to any threat of floral barbarism in well trimmed suburbia. On such a luminous day I was not inclined to muse upon what paths I might tread in days to come. Besides, I was in love.

She was Aphrodite, she was Venus, she was Juliet, she was Cleopatra - and each of these crowns she could have borne with ease. And I? I was not worthy to speak her name, but I'll tell you anyway. She was Gwyneth, Gwyneth Stapleton. She of the long fair hair, the fine features, the large bright eyes, blue and gold ... I could go on, but, suffice to say, she was a goddess. A queen who called to me in the depths of dreams, across the well marshalled lawns and rigid hedge rows, across the drooping plum and peach trees, across the Irish Mist roses giving off their nocturnal perfume, across the cooling blackened barbecues that though scrubbed were still redolent with the scent of chops, ribs and onion rings.

She was a siren who called to me in these dreams, beckoning me to feasts of sunshine and laughter, and though I saw her round often enough - she worked with my sister - there was a problem. A hindrance, a jag, an obstacle. An obstacle named Staunch. Staunch Grierson. For it was in his silver chariot (a 1965 Mustang with wire wheels) that I would see the fair Gwyneth go a-riding through the town.

Staunch was, I suppose, one of the town 'heavies,' squat, broad shouldered, tattooed, a blackberry tangle of red hair atop a fierce face. His story was well known, a father who left - some say after a bar fight that got out of hand, some say just a drunken spree that lost them all their money - in any case, the old man went out for a beer and never came back. Staunch grew up pretty much hand to mouth but with a talent for scrapping. He was twenty five and a panel beater. His real name was Barry, but everyone in the town called him Staunch, or 'Bazzer.' I had never spoken to him, just seen him go by in that silver machine, a black roofed bullet, tearing down the night in a sleeping but ever watchful town. What did she see in him? Would she ever trade that leather upholstery for the bench seat of a Holden station wagon, "no going over thirty and home by twelve please?" I felt the hot hand of the sun on my back, sighed and wondered.

*

At dinner that night my father took out the "what are you going to do with your life?" record and began playing it loud and long. My father, Alf, was three or four inches shorter than me, a surprising experience to be looking down on the man you had had to look up to for so many years. He had short black hair, mellow but somewhat sour eyes, and a chest and shoulders so bulky it was almost as if he would overbalance. I had more of my mother's looks, sallow skin, with almost sunken cheeks, a dash of black hair, short at the sides and long at the fringe, and my shoulders were rounded and sad, unlike my well-built father.

My father loved the dinner table. It was his chance to regale us with deeply satisfying (to him), tales of the foibles and follies of the people he knew. He would, across the red tomato shaped sauce squeeze bottle, the Cerebos salt shaker and the paisley patterned tablecloth, exhort us to enjoin his schadenfreude over some insignificant travail of some hapless colleague or acquaintance.

" ... He spent seven hundred and eighty dollars on that Ford Falcon," he would say as he intermittently gnawed at the scrap of meat left of his lamb chop, the bone waved in incantation across the gravy smeared willow pattern plate for gleeful emphasis. "Seven hundred and eighty dollars including an overhaul of the transmission, and he never bothered to spend a little extra to join the Automobile Association." My father would glance quickly round at us - me, my mother, my older sister - to ascertain the effect this audacious act of stupidity would have on us, his regular six thirty captive audience.

"So there he was," my father would go on, his expression conveying the wisdom of a long line of great sages, as well as smugness. "Twenty five miles from Tuatapere on some unmapped gravel road and couldn't get the damn thing going for the life of him. Had to walk seven miles to the nearest farmhouse. And then had the devil of a time getting a tow truck. Seven miles!" My father would shake his head at his long sufferance of humanity's foolishness and give a rasping, self-satisfied chuckle deep in his throat as he squirted tomato sauce on his remaining chop.

"What are you putting tomato sauce on it for?" my mother, Amy, would say, her sharp eyes suddenly alert at this culinary affront. "You'll spoil the flavour. What's wrong with the gravy?" Her words would banish my father's musings into the ether along with the steam from the potatoes and peas.

But tonight it was my turn. My High School days were over forever and I stood in limbo, poised to enter the everyday world, the world of higher education, of careers, tax brackets, interest rates, inflation, mortgages, hire purchase agreements, home and contents insurance - words that were the poison chalice of youth. But my future and what might be made of it was an event of significance and my father was in his element.

"So what are you going to do with your life? You've been hanging round the house for the last three weeks, just moping." The fork with dried gravy on one of the tines danced in the air before my eyes. Then it was thrust towards me as if my father was considering whether a few prods from its prongs would spur me to fantastic heights of accomplishments before the table was cleared and the dishes done. "Have you at least given it some thought? I mean you're not planning to while away your days as a gentleman of leisure are you? When I was your age I'd been out in the real world for two years. It wasn't bloody easy in those days, I can tell you."

My father loved the expression, "the real world." It was where he dwelt and went to war on our behalf, slaying dragons of files and forms, engaging in correspondence to correspondence combat with mighty foes in distant departments, making sure the mortgage was paid, the car was regularly serviced and we had food on the table and clothes on our backs. I, my mother and sister dwelt in a make believe world of ease and comfort, all provided by him and seldom given thanks for.

" ... see you coming to a bad end," my father concluded, with one of the expressions he had acquired in the "real world" and was duty bound to impart, with forbearance, to us, his loyal subjects. I muttered something about polytechnic and technical drawing and immediately filled my mouth with meat and a fair portion of potato and began to chew ostentatiously.

" Oh leave him be," my mother said. "It's his last long summer, he might as well enjoy it. He doesn't have to decide anything right away." My mother stood up and began removing items from the table as if she were a conjurer, deftly disappearing plates and butter dishes behind her ears and into secret compartments. She was tall and bony, a good looking forty five or so with tresses of flaming auburn hair wound into a coil. Her lips were pressed thin and tight as she cleared away, her brown eyes were intense and lively. I was glad she had come to my defence, as she often did, and it was fortunate that she had a meeting of the Athenian Players that night, a local drama group for which she was the secretary, stage manager and many things besides, and she was anxious to get away.

My father harrumphed and adjusted his belt, satisfied that he had spoken wisely and with the import befitting the occasion. I was off the hook for the moment, but I knew he would be at me again in a week or two. Through it all my sister, Suzanne, sat opposite me at the table, calmly chewing her way through her chops and saying nothing. She was a year older than me and worked as a pattern cutter at a local clothing factory, although she had aspirations to possibly go to university at some stage. She was tall and bony like my mother but with shoulder length thin black hair, my father's grey eyes and a seemingly permanent self-satisfied expression that irritated me at moments such as these.

After dinner my father sat in his Lay-Z-Boy recliner, poured himself a glass of beer, picked up the paper, and with the television on in the background began to pass judgement upon the peoples of the nation and the world as he read of their exploits in the Clarion Star. My mother was long gone into the gathering dark, fetched by one of her thespian companions to an urgent council on costumes for Birnam Wood, and my sister was immersed in Cleo magazine and burning up the telephone wires with a discussion about the 'sealed section.'

I went down to the garden shed, its rough wooden sidings, corrugated iron roof and single pane window a place of brief respite where I could have a surreptitious smoke and imagine a better world. I sat in the almost complete dark on the workbench and dragged on the cigarette, watching its fiery tip flare. I did not dwell on my father's words, nor what awaited me in the "real world." My only wish was that the summer would last forever and my thoughts were only of the Lady Gwyneth, and when I might see her again.

*

The sand was hot and white, it glittered as if it was strewn with tiny fragments of silver. The sea rolled in, turquoise and smoky-green, further out a scintillating mirror. To the south, Matakate Island hugged the ocean, like a slumbering blue-black beast in the wavering haze. A soft, occasional westerly stirred small eddies of the crystalline sand across my toes and the sand-hoppers scuttled here and there with mysterious purpose. The sky was a chalky blue with just traces of high cirrus like transparent strips of tissue paper arcing across. A cold, gold can of beer was in my hand, my two friends, Toby and George sat on either side of me, and the Disk Jockey Casey Kasem counted down the top forty on the portable radio-tape deck as we basked in the everlasting sunshine. It was good to be alive.

"This is cool," Toby on my left said as Boston averred from the radio that it was More Than A Feeling. " ... I close my eyes and I drift awa - y ... " I had got to know Toby since the beginning of High School. He was plumpish in a well built sort of way, he had a soft face, with just that slight red tinge you sometimes see in his somewhat pale cheeks. His eyebrows almost joined and he always seemed to have a furrow in his brow as if even the most mundane things in life were a constant puzzle to him.

"Yeah, maybe disco's finally passed away," George said. He too chimed in, in a thin, whistling sort of voice. "It's more than a feeling ... " George I suppose was my closest friend at the time. We had known each other since Primary School. He had short cropped gingery hair, a profusion of freckles on his face and arms and a sort of canny but amused look as if to him there were no great surprises. The three of us knocked around together mostly, sometimes part of a larger group, but mostly just the three of us. Someone once called us the Drunken Musketeers but it never really caught on.

"I feel, gentlemen," I said. "As if the Good Lord has blessed us this day. We have the magnificence of creation before us, good company, and cool beer on a hot beach. What more could a young man of these fair isles ask for?"

"We have no women," Toby said.

"He's got a point," George said.

"Ah yes, gentlemen," I said. "But we have our youth, we have possibilities, we have potential. We have the future to look forward to."

"The future?" said Toby. "There's no future." He raised his can and took a long swallow.

"Not at all," I said. "We have all afternoon here, then this evening, we can drive around for a while then go home and drink beer. It sounds like heaven to me."

"No," said Toby with a half scowl. "The _future_ , future."

"He's right," said George, flicking a sandfly off his right foot. "What have we got to look forward to really? We go out into the world, get jobs, find some woman, get married, work some more, raise a family, go to the pub on Thursday nights, fish and chips on Friday, wash the car on Saturday ... "

"Mow the lawns on Sunday ... " Toby said.

"Get old and learn to play Bowls," I said.

"It's not much is it?" Toby said.

"Bugger all when you think about it," George said.

"What are you going to do with yourself next year?" Toby said addressing me.

"I haven't decided," I said. "The old man is already expressing concern at my indolent lifestyle. I was having vague thoughts towards Polytech. What about you?"

"Hmm, dunno. I was thinking about uni. Just not sure what I'd study. My old man says to do something practical, like economics or something ... but I dunno. I'll just think about it for a while."

"George?" I said. "Any master plans?"

"Uni for me, mate," George said. "Wine, women and song. For three years. As long as you pass your exams. Why don't we all go? We'll all go into the city and enrol on the same day."

"Yeah, we should," said Toby.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't really want to think about it at the moment. We've got today, jeez, why spoil it by worrying about where we'll be in ... I don't know ... God knows. Let's eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die."

"Actually I could go a hamburger," said Toby.

"Me too," said George. So it was decided, that libation must be followed by feasting. We picked up our towels, scattered the sand to the wind, threw the empties in the chilly bin and trekked back across the dunes to Toby's mother's Vauxhall Viva and a foray to the place where all the rivers of youth in the town eventually co-joined, the Blue Moon Burger Bar.

*

The Blue Moon Burger Bar was a triumph of disconsolate architecture. On one side of it was the second hand store where dream dusted objects lay pining for a new home and on the right hand side of it was the old fruit and vegetable shop with bright yellow Bonita bananas and Golden Delicious apples in the window, and older-than-time grey haired Mr Singh who could measure a half pound of asparagus just by weighing it in his hand. The burger bar had a blue lettered sign above it with a picture of a blue crescent moon made into a smiling face wearing sunglasses.

The Blue Moon Burger Bar may have been turning a pale ochre with age, may well have come down in the next reasonable earthquake, but its hamburgers were gigantic and legendary. They would have kept Antarctic explorers alive for weeks could they but be transported.

We sat on hard plastic chairs with their pencil thin legs and waited. Nobody much came in. The burger bar was open till midnight on the weekends and that's when the drifting youth were drawn there, like the moths that banged against its outsized florescent lights, pulled in as if by an illuminated vortex in the dark of a small town where others of their ilk might be gathering. At last our orders were ready and we walked back out into the bright baking day.

I had in my hands besides the hamburger a round cardboard carton with the edifying legend "Hot Chips" written on it accompanied by red flames, and I had just placed a tomato sauce smeared chip between my teeth when I saw coming down the street towards us the Lady Gwyneth. She wore a fawn cotton blouse and faded blue jeans whose flares swept the ground before her so that her graceful feet might find no hindrance. Upon her wrist was a bracelet, a silver charm with which she no doubt wielded her power. Her nails were painted pink. She came closer, closer. Our eyes met. She smiled.

"Hi," she said.

"Gidday," I said, awkward, throat a little tight. She passed by, her hair flowing behind, soft, fair, yellow in the blistering sun.

"Isn't that Staunch Grierson's girlfriend?" said Toby.

"How do you know her?" George said.

"She's a friend of my sister's," I said. "They work together." I walked on, my feet just scraping the ground as I felt myself grow lighter and lighter. I tried to be nonchalant, but her face was still before me, that half smile already stored in the treasury of memory. Just when I thought it was indeed a good day, the air seemed to go out of me, I deflated, my feet seemed to thump into the ground. Across the road was the silver chariot and Staunch sat at the wheel, his eyes upon me. I glanced at him and he was looking at me. I looked away. I glanced back. He was still looking at me. When I looked back a third time he was looking straight ahead. But he must have seen Gwyneth say hello.

We sat in the Viva and ate our hamburgers and chips. Toby and George chattered on about nothing much, and I said a few words here and there, but my heart was not in it. I was seeing the Lady Gwyneth walk by, was hearing her say "hi," but the crystal ball was clouded, the vision was occluded by a picture of those dark eyes of Staunch looking at me out of the Mustang window.

*

The next night, a Friday night, at the dinner table, my father having regaled us with the exploits of a colleague - something about mislaid files and misaddressed envelopes - my sister set before me an unexpected opportunity. She did not yet have her driver's licence and she wanted my father to drive her and two of her friends on Saturday night to the local picture theatre where they were showing Romeo and Juliet and to pick them up afterwards and ferry them home.

"Why can't one of their parents convey you?" my father said, no doubt ruing the fact that my mother also did not drive.

"Because I said you would," my sister said.

"I see," said my father. "It was very generous of you to offer, especially without consulting me."

"Jeez Dad, I'm asking you now."

"Don't torment her," my mother said, dessert spoon in hand like a gavel. "There's no reason why you can't drop them off and pick them up."

"Ah but there is," my father said, a slight look of superiority mixing on his face with a tinge of annoyance. "Henry and Phil have asked me to make up a third for a billiards tournament at the Returned Services Association tomorrow night. It won't finish till at least eleven."

My sister made a face of frustration and sighed the sigh of all youth dependant upon the largesse of their elders and betters. "It finishes tomorrow night," she said.

"Well who are you going with?" my father said.

"Sara Corlough and Gwyneth Stapleton," my sister said, slumping a little into her chair with resignation.

"Well, don't they drive?" my father said, no doubt with visions of vanquishing his opponents on the billiards table and several cool beers to follow if he could just extricate himself from this duty of domestic bliss.

"Sara's got her licence, but her parents are taking their car to some party or other. And Gwyneth doesn't drive."

"Well - " my father began, but before he could offer any more alternatives I interjected.

"I could take them." My sister looked at me suspiciously.

"Won't George and Toby miss you?" she said, a little unnecessarily acerbic I thought.

"Oh no," I said, airily waving a hand. "We've got nothing planned. I could take you in the Holden and pick you up afterwards."

"You don't want to see the film, do you?" My sister asked, obviously having a sudden vision of being seen out on the town with her little brother.

"No, not at all," I said. "I mean, I've just got no plans, that's all, so I might as well." My sister was wary, but she was in a hole and I had offered her a way out. So it was decided, the next night I would be at the wheel of the Holden station wagon. I had to make an effort to conceal my secret joy as I finished off the melted remains of my strawberry ice-cream, for tomorrow night I would be in the presence of the Lady Gwyneth, I would be driving the very carriage in which she sat.

It was later that night a simple matter to persuade Toby and George, as we quaffed brown ale and dreamed of a summer that would never pass, that my father was forcing me to drive my sister and her friends to some romantic movie and there was just no way out of it. When I got home that night I was contemplating the morrow, when I might engage in conversation with the fair Gwyneth, perhaps even becharm her.

I did not let the image of Staunch's glowering eyes intrude on my musings, I began to hope rather, that perhaps this was not just a girl's night out but that Staunch and Gwyneth had gone their separate ways or that perhaps he had followed his father, and even now the silver Mustang was driving hard into the rushing black night, tongues of blue flame flickering from the exhaust, the white lines of the road coming at him like tracer fire from some unknown foe as he drove on and on, further and further from the fair Gwyneth.

*

"Shouldn't you be keeping more to the left?" my sister was saying the next night as we drove through the meandering back streets. She had made several comments on the quality of my driving which I felt showed a certain amount of ingratitude on her part at my unselfish desire to be their chauffeur for the evening.

"Watch out for that guy. He hasn't got his indicator on." I grinned inwardly and bore it, although it was a tad more irritating than usual as Sara Corlough was in the back seat, smiling benignly and saying nothing either way, but then she was always smiling, kind of super friendly if you know what I mean. She wore the inevitable faded blue flares, with a pale blue roll neck top and corduroy jacket, and above her half-smile her eyes were somewhat wide and almost innocent. My sister had on a similar roll neck top, except a kind of peach colour, a leather jacket and her flares.

She also had on long, tear-drop shaped earrings that seemed to me to make her look older. I had on a pale ochre, long-sleeved shirt, my best, my dark brown corduroys and I had even polished my shoes and dabbed a bit of my father's Old Spice on each side of my neck. If my sister was suspicious of my substitution of tee-shirt and jeans for half way decent garb, she did not say anything. I think she was just grateful I would not embarrass her in front of her friends.

"Here it is," my sister said.

"This one?" I said pointing in some surprise. We pulled up outside the house and waited. I was a little taken aback by its appearance. The weatherboard was cracked and the paint flaking, a piece of plastic covered a hole in one of the windows. A rust-encrusted Mark One Ford Zephyr sat on the front lawn, long grass embracing its flat tyres, its engine lay next to it, exhausted, dirty oil across its corroding pistons. The whole house seemed to curve downwards in the middle, as if it was caught at the end of a constant sigh.

"Shall I toot the horn?" I said.

"Just wait a minute," my sister said. Her window was open and at that moment we began to hear a raised voice from the house. A man, the words indistinct, like the sound of a dark boulder being rolled round on corrugated iron, the anger thickening it. Then a woman's voice, angry but plaintive all at once, again the words unclear. Then a third voice, feminine, almost imploring, not angry. The row went on long enough to make us feel uncomfortable.

"Should we go in and get Gwyneth?" Sara said.

"No. Just wait another minute or two," my sister said. The voices began to abate, now and then just an angry roll of that rock. Then it was quiet.

"Maybe we should toot the horn," Sara said. "She might not have heard us arrive."

"Yeah. Okay," my sister said and she reached across and gave two light pips on the horn as if we had just got there. At that moment the door opened and Gwyneth came out. She had on jean jacket and blue flares, a pinkish blouse and silver circular earrings. She adjusted her white handbag and kept her eyes on the concrete path as she walked towards us. She opened the back door of the car and got in without hesitation.

"Hi," she said, bright, assertive. "Have you been waiting long?" She smiled at all of us in turn, her eyes seeming somehow a little gloomy yet defiant at the same time.

"No, no," my sister said. "We only just got here."

"Oh good," said Gwyneth. "I didn't want to make us late."

"No, we're good," my sister said. She turned to me. "Well ... drive on Jeeves." I started the car and we left the house behind, squatting, watching us drive away, its windows sullen. We drove in silence at first, the echo of the argument seemed to still be in the car and I felt the need to make conversation.

"So what's the movie,?" I asked.

"Romeo and Juliet," my sister said. "I told you."

"Oh yes," I said ignoring her. "The Bard on a Saturday night in a small New Zealand town. I wonder if he himself could ever have dreamed of such glories?"

"Don't be such a poser," my sister said. "It's a good love story, that's all."

"I studied it in the sixth form," Sara said. "It was in the University Entrance exam."

"What about you Gwyneth?" I said. "Have you ever read it?" I looked at her in the rear view mirror. Our eyes met.

"We did the balcony scene once with Mrs Cairnthorp. I was Juliet. But I can't remember if I ever finished the whole thing." I smiled at her vaguely, but I was seeing her on the balcony, moonlight in her fair hair, her cheeks pale, and me below, calling her to come down, away from that house where dark voices were raised.

"You should let our mother get you a part in the latest Athenian Players tour de force," I said. "You'd get your photo in the local rag." I smiled. Gwyneth's eyes met mine in the mirror once more and for the first time since she had gotten into the car a genuine, light-hearted smile seemed to animate her.

"Then, on to Hollywood," she said. "Small town girl makes good."

"Actually, Cassandra Barnsford is going to drama school next year," my sister said, addressing Sara and Gwyneth.

"She should go to drama _queen_ school," Sara said with a flash of her teeth. The other two laughed. "After what happened at the social ... "

They began to talk of Cassandra's boyfriend problems, of other pairings that they knew and various gossip while I concentrated on the driving, stealing small mirror-view glances at Gwyneth who now seemed at ease, the argument at home, whatever it was about, forgotten. We pulled into the picture theatre car park and there were a fair few people there. Middle-aged couples, some of the men in polo necked lightweight jerseys, or navy blue jackets, their wives wearing lipstick and foundation, the Morris Thirteen Hundreds next to the Austin Cambridges next to the Rover V-eights. My three passengers got out of the car and my sister gave strict instructions that I was to be there at ten thirty.

I watched them walk across to the theatre, my eyes on Gwyneth in her jean jacket. I envied even the platform shoes upon her delicate feet, bearing her tender weight to her evening's romantic entertainment. Of course I did not go home. I was content to wait, to listen to the ZB station on the car radio playing _Unchained Melody_ , getting a little syrupy and dreaming of what might be.

Nothing really happened. I did not see Toby or George go past. I did not hear the distinctive crackling roar of Staunch's Mustang. It grew quite dark. I got out of the car and wandered around a bit, staring up at the Southern Cross, like some kind of diamond pointed giant's kite flying through the galaxy. A couple of souped up cars came by, a Cortina and an Escort. I glimpsed brown bottles, wild eyes and wind flung hair. They shouted out something and their laughter disappeared with them down the main street.

A couple came past walking their dog, the dog straining at the leash as if escape from its owners was the one thing in life worth having. I switched to the ZM station and the radio played _All Right Now_. I tapped my hands on the steering wheel and sang along, loud, with the windows closed. It got on for ten o'clock. I got out of the car again and leaned on the fender. A few cars went by, the middle-aged, the old, the young. A half-moon rose in the east and drained some of the darkness out of the night. At last, about ten forty, people began appearing once more in the theatre foyer, then they issued forth, brought rapidly and blinking back from their journey to distant lives and lands to the cool summer air of their small antipodean town.

My sister, Gwyneth and Sara appeared, saw me and began to walk towards the car. They seemed to walk closer together than when they went in, their heads a little down, only exchanging a few words as they approached.

"How was it?" I said when they were settled in.

"Fantastic," said Sara. "But so sad."

"Yeah," said my sister. "Not your usual happy ending. You should take Toby and George to see it. But take plenty of handkerchiefs." She threw an amused glance back at Sara and Gwyneth. I said nothing, just concentrated on the driving, glancing occasionally in the ambient illumination from the streetlights at Gwyneth in the back .

They talked mostly about the movie and it seemed a shorter drive to get back to Gwyneth's place. It was dark save for a porch light around which the moths whirled and danced. But there was a moment, just before I pulled into the curb beside her house, when as I was glancing at her, she was looking at me, at my eyes in the mirror. I looked away fearing to appear too forward, but unable to resist I looked again, and she was still looking, and I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw a faint smile touch her face.

Then the car door was opening, she was saying her farewells, making promises of future potential outings. She thanked me for driving them, almost formally, as if the moment in the mirror had not passed between us. Then, all too soon, she was gone, she was opening her front door and we were pulling away from the kerb. I drove on, barely listening to the natter between Sara and my sister. Instead I was seeing a moonlight, streetlight half smile in the mirror, and wondering.

*

Three weeks later there was a wave of excitement in the town, a ripple in the air between the hills and the sea - for the youth of the town had hatched a conspiracy to have fun. It was "the weekend of the big barbecue" as it later came to be known, although in truth, there was a great bonfire and much native timber was put to the torch so that the revellers might have fire by which to revel, but precious little barbecuing unless you count a few blackened baked potatoes in their crinkled shells of silver foil. Toby and I heard about it from George who was always the first to know about such things. "Yeah mate. Big barbecue up at Carson's Folly. On Saturday. See ya there."

The word went round the various enclaves and groups and so it was that once again in Toby's mother's Vauxhall Viva we wound our way on a gravel road into the long valley behind the town. We headed with "the youth of today" in Prefects, Morrises, Austins, Fords and the occasional Toyota towards Carson's Folly, a swimming hole set back in the bush, sheltered, serene, picturesque - in a word, ideal for a drunken spree lit by a huge roaring tower of wood that orange-red painted the partygoers into an animated scene from Hieronymus Bosch.

Carson's Folly got its name from the old farmer who used to own the land up until the Great Depression of the 1930s. The Depression did for him however and the bank foreclosed on his mortgage. In a fit of drunken despair, he set fire to the farmhouse, let all his stock go in the bush and then threw himself from the top of the cliff into the waterhole and was drowned. At least that was the legend.

The waterhole itself was actually fairly tame. It was at a bend in a slow part of the river, and the current had dug out a deep pool at the base of a steep cliff. The cliff was high enough to scare divers who only ever leapt with appropriate spectator calls and whoops from a ledge about halfway up. I had jumped a few times from the ledge, but it was actually quite daunting and not to be encouraged when alcohol had impaired the swan-like endeavours of the more daring.

We got down to the river just on dusk, the air filled with the scent of the land laying its head down to sleep, the tang of the bush, the gentle chatter of the river below a yellow-tinged ultramarine sky. They were just about to light the fire as we came down the bank, saying "gidday" to those we knew reasonably well and nodding to others. We carried a dozen cans (another dozen in the boot of the car) and half a dozen sausages as a token gesture to the concept of clean cut young people gathering in a scenic bush setting for an evening barbecue and soiree.

There were already about thirty people there, listening to a wound up cassette player blasting out the Rolling Stones' _Black and Blue_ album. About four or five people were swimming in the river. We sat down on the edge of the crowd and got started on the beers.

The fire flickered into life, fingers of flame racing up the wood, casting a ruddy spotlight glow on the faces and the smiles, the surrounding bush slinking back into black, the only things visible the beacon fire calling into the night, the reflection of the fire on the river and the shadows dancing on the cliff above.

We cooked the sausages on sticks, risking life and limb from the bonfire, drank a couple of beers each and mingled a little with those around us, the gathering now having grown to around forty or fifty people. I talked Toby into going for a swim with me. George was engaged in conversation with a dark-haired young woman and we abandoned him to his fate.

The water was warm though cold at first. I dived under and there seemed no bottom, there seemed only a green-black sinking in upon green-black, until eventually there was an almost palpable darkness, as if it glowed black. Toby tried to talk me into diving off the ledge halfway up the cliff, but I wasn't very keen. He had a go. I treaded water as he climbed up the bank and I cheered him on as he jumped feet first into the deepest part of the swimming hole. A few minutes later we both got out of the water.

I dried myself near the bonfire for a few minutes and then worked my way over to where we were sitting. Toby was deep in conversation with a couple of guys, only one of whom I knew slightly. George was still talking to the dark-haired young woman and each time I glanced at them they seemed to be edging ever closer together. I sat on the grass and helped myself to a fresh beer.

I had finished about half the beer can when a stir went through the crowd and it was almost as if the fire leapt a little towards the sky. Heads were turning, I looked also. Coming down the bank and into the range of the firelight was a dark, leather-jacketed, leather booted and long-haired group, their voices rough-edged, guttural, almost as if they were speaking a foreign language. There were only six or seven of them but it seemed like there was more. In the midst of these blue-jeaned barbarians walked a princess - white muslin top, white flared trousers, long fair hair. It was Gwyneth. And Staunch. And his mates.

I was at once pleased and disappointed. Pleased because she was there, but disappointed because as long as Staunch was there I would never get to speak to her. Their group mingled in with another and sat down on the opposite side of the bonfire to me, Gwyneth had not noticed me. By now there must have been about sixty people scattered about, voices were growing louder, laughs longer, the empty beer, Marque Vue and Asti Spumante bottles scattered about reflected the firelight in their green and brown glass like animal eyes in the dark, watching us.

Toby said something to me but I didn't get up and join his group, I just made some meagre reply and kept my eyes on Gwyneth. Those around her were knocking back beer and smoking cigarettes, their laughter harsh and loud. They all seemed to gather round Staunch, almost in homage to their warrior leader, and though I could not make out what he was saying I could hear his voice above the others, leading the campaign and the laughter.

I had almost finished the beer when a lull seemed to come upon their group's conversation. In that lull, Gwyneth glanced about the noisy throng and in the next moment she saw me. It was then that I was surprised. I saw the look of recognition cross her face, was expecting her to smile and perhaps wave out, to call out "hi," but instead our eyes just met. It was at that moment an understanding was reached between us. I knew she was aware of and acknowledged my attraction to her. The look seemed to intensify, the noise of the party seemed to fade, there was only the crackling of the fire, its soft orange glow on Gwyneth's cheeks.

In reality it could only have been a few moments, but in that time I began to demand more of life, I became deeply discontent. Why shouldn't Gwyneth be with me? What right did the world and circumstance have to divide us? The look went on and on. One of us would have to break off. As it turned out it was me. I became aware of something out of the corner of my eye, to the left. I shifted my eyes and looked. It was Staunch, watching Gwyneth watching me. A current, an entanglement had passed between us and Staunch had seen it, had felt it.

Gwyneth saw me look away, she turned her head to the right and looked at Staunch. I could not hear what she said to him but I could see she was trying a light remark, a fluttering dismissal of his suspicions. He did not answer her. He turned and looked forward, raising his beer bottle to his lips and drinking deep, his eyes flashing in the firelight. I kept watching them, without being too obvious. Gwyneth tried to talk to him again but once more he ignored her and she fell silent, leaning forward and picking at the grass between her feet. I was waiting for Staunch to look at me, for the accusation, but he never did. He stood up, threw the empty bottle into the invisible bush where it disappeared without a sound, then he took off his jacket and shirt and began walking away from his group. Gwyneth stood up and called him back but he ignored her. This attracted the attention of his friends and they began to take an interest in what Staunch was up to.

He had reached the base of the cliff and was climbing up the track to the ledge, pulling himself along by roots and rocky handholds. But he did not stop at the ledge. He kept climbing, forging a way through the bush and the scrub, small trails of rocks and gravel tumbling from his feet to the water below. He was going to the top of the cliff.

"Go Staunch!" His group began to cheer him on, yahooing and raising their fists in the air. Heads from the whole crowd began to turn. Then he was on top of the cliff, a vague, pale-chested shape, his hands by his side. The whole crowd began to call out, raising their bottles and glasses, urging him to jump. I could hear only one dissenting voice above the others.

"Staunch!" Gwyneth sounded anxious and angry. The drunken catcalling went on - Staunch could not back out now. I don't know exactly how high the cliff was. Perhaps somewhere between thirty and forty feet. But standing up there, with your own height added in, the black water below would have seemed a long way away. But the crowd was not to be disappointed.

Staunch raised his arms level with his shoulders. He stood poised like that for what seemed an age, then he did not so much dive as slowly fall, surprisingly graceful as he brought his arms forward and his hands together. Then he flashed past the cliff into the glow of the fire and struck the water, sending up a great plume of a splash. The partygoers yelled with delight, raising strange tribal ululations from the back of their throats, holding their bottles aloft like brown shields, as if the feat and its kudos was all theirs. But then the ceremony began to falter, Staunch did not reappear to receive the rough-house congratulations he had earned, all that there was, was a line of ripples outlined by reflected firelight. The cheering and the euphoria died away. I heard Gwyneth's voice silence it completely.

"Staunch!" There was real fear now and almost a tinge of grief. I don't know exactly what went through my mind at that point. Perhaps I was not as drunk as everyone else, perhaps it was that almost uncanny sound in Gwyneth's voice - as if I wanted to help _her_ , to save _her_. I don't know. Anyway, the next thing I know I'm standing up, running to the water's edge and diving in. I could hear the crashing of the water around me as three or four others dived in as well, but I couldn't see them.

I began to dive down, to the very centre of the swimming hole. The deeper I went the colder it seemed to become, there was no sound, just a growing penumbra of black, the world had disappeared. I became seized by a strange thought - that I was connected by a thin silver chord to the world above, that it could sever at any moment and my breath would explode out of my lungs, that I would join Staunch and somewhere below him old man Carson, forever swimming down and down into the endless green-black void.

I flailed around, searching. I struck something. Was it a branch? Driftwood? I flailed again in that direction. My hand grasped. Flesh. Flesh on flesh. I pulled - for a moment I thought the arm would not come. Then it lurched towards me, I could feel the weight attached. I turned and struck towards the surface, my lungs starting to ache, struck away from the cold calling of that deep night.

I broke the surface, the air bursting out of my mouth, life sucked back in. Then all was confusion. Hands from those around me in the water were grabbing Staunch, grabbing me. All seemed to be torsos, water, heads, arms, and in the next moment we were all on the bank, Staunch laid out on his back, his jeans black, his limp chest white.

"Somebody better do mouth to mouth." I was not sure who spoke. Everybody stood in indecision, the moment elongating, when Staunch jerked upwards a little, coughing and spitting out a thin plume of water at the same time. A few seconds later relief swept through us all as Staunch sat fully up. I caught a glimpse of Gwyneth's face, tears in her eyes, relief but alarm still in her expression

"Jesus Staunch," said one of his group, kneeling beside him on the grass. "Thought you were brown bread then mate. You okay? You wanta go to a doctor or something?" Staunch seemed a little dazed, looked about him. "Staunch? You okay mate?"

"Yeah ... " Staunch said at length. "Just get me a bloody beer."

"Whey hey ... good on ya bro." The beer was fetched and Staunch took a long draught. He stood up and Gwyneth put her arms around him, the whole group seemed to close in on itself and shut out the rest of the partygoers, myself included. They drifted away from the firelight into the shadows where they gathered in a circle round Staunch who put his shirt and jacket back on.

I became aware of Toby and George beside me, slapping me on the back, giving me beer and talking in excited tones over what had just happened, retelling it to each other as if the both of them had not been there. A short while later I saw Staunch and his group leave, making their way in a dark mass up the bank. My eyes were on Gwyneth amongst them, a white dressed angel, disappearing upward into the inscrutable dark of the world outside the flickering hands of the firelight.

*

About a year or so later I was working for my father's company as a sort of glorified stationery clerk. I filled out orders for pens and paper, staples, sellotape, that kind of thing. I think my father wielded considerable influence in securing the position for me and for the first few months he constantly exhorted me to not "cock it up." It would have been difficult given that the tasks demanded of me allowed part of my mind to wander where it would, beyond office walls and filing cabinets, to beaches and beers and the distant sun-filled air. I was giving serious thought to going to uni the next year but I had no definite direction.

So there I was, ensconced in packaging, cardboard boxes and manila folders when a phone call brought back memories of the "night of the big barbie." It was my sister, Suzanne, (who by now had launched herself on studying psychology at uni - I had to laugh), and she told me that Staunch and Gwyneth were getting married. Not only that, but that she and I were invited to the wedding about a month away.

This gave me something to think about for the rest of the day as I wrapped yet more packages in blue plastic tape. I had not really seen Gwyneth since that night at Carson's Folly, but she and Staunch seemed to fade from the local scene after that. The summer ended, my father cajoled me into the job, Toby and George went to uni - youth had begun to flex its wings, preparing for flight. But I had thought of Gwyneth often, wondering if it could have amounted to something, the moments that had passed between us, wondering if she was really happy. It seemed I had my answer. She was going to marry Staunch and I was probably just a brief memory, although I had been invited to the wedding.

I found that a little strange. I couldn't understand why Gwyneth would have invited me, or why Staunch would tolerate it. But my curiosity was piqued. I suppose in a strange way it meant getting close to Gwyneth again too, to be a part of her world, albeit to witness her consigning her future to Staunch. So it was a few weeks later I found myself sitting in St Bernadette's Church, across the road from the mall, wearing a grey, ill-fitting suit and a white carnation, watching the Lady Gwyneth, in a full length white dress with a tiara of white flowers in her hair, say "I do" to 'Barry,' dressed uncharacteristically in a black suit with a silvery silk waistcoat and his own white carnation.

It was all straightforward, all over in a reasonable time. I had a look at Staunch's mother and Gwyneth's parents. They seemed ordinary enough, though her father's eyes crossed mine once and I got a glimpse of a certain cold aggression, a dark fire. Then it was all done, the organ played, the confetti was thrown and we all adjourned to the Matakate Rugby Club Rooms for the reception.

*

The reception was also straightforward. The toasts were made, scandalous tales from Staunch's past were told, (no doubt abridged for the mixed company), beer, wine, spirits, sausage rolls, cheese and pineapple on toothpicks, trifle and pavlova were consumed and the wedding cake was cut. Camera bulbs flashed, the cabaret band struck up, the happy couple took the first dance and the rest of the throng followed.

I was left pretty much to my own devices. I only really knew my sister and Sara Corlough who both spent most of the time dancing. I drank a few beers and had one cigarette outside in the cool, and by ten thirty the party had passed its peak and only Staunch's mates, all primly suited for the occasion, seemed inclined to carry on the carousing. It was a little after that, when even Staunch's mates' bonhomie began to abate, that I was sitting at a table by myself, gazing abstractedly and nursing the remains of a beer when I saw Stauch leave his group and walk towards me. He came right up and sat down at the table opposite me. I had not spoken to him all night and though I was a little wary I was curious as to what he would have to say.

"How's it goin'?" he said and he smiled.

"Good. Congratulations by the way. It's a good do."

"Yeah, thanks mate. It seems to have turned out all right. Make the old folks happy anyway, eh?"

I laughed a little. Staunch looked away towards Gwyneth and seemed to be considering his words. At length he turned back to me.

"Look ... " he said. "About that night at Carson's Folly. I mean, I never said thanks or anything ... so, I want to thank you now. I mean, if it hadn't of been for you, who knows who would have been standing at the altar today." His eyes flashed a little as he said this last part but I could see his gratitude was sincere.

"Oh, you know ... " I said. "There must have been three or four others who dived in that night. It wasn't just me that pulled you out."

Staunch just nodded then turned away and gazed at Gwyneth again over the other side of the hall laughing and talking with my sister and some other friends. He turned back to me.

"You know, the strangest bloody thing happened to me down there. Before you grabbed ... I mean, I dunno. You wouldn't credit it. I told Gwyn about it, but no-one else. My whole life flashed before my eyes. I mean everything, like a movie. Like a ... I don't know bloody what. I saw everything. Man it was weird. But after that ... you know, I thought about it all ... all that heavy shit, the aggro and everything. And I thought ... it's all a waste of time, you know? It's for losers. So ... I decided I'd try and make a go of it, you know? Settle down with Gwyn, get something happening. And here it is. So ... anyway ... I just wanted to say thanks and I owe you one bro."

He reached across the table and shook my hand. I felt his firm grip, saw the sincerity in his eyes and suddenly Staunch didn't seem like Staunch anymore, did not seem loose, hard and wild, dangerous, only solid and steady, almost vulnerable. He stood up, gave me a wave and went over and joined Gwyneth.

About half an hour later those left at the party roused themselves to almost full celebratory mode as the happy couple made to depart for their honeymoon. We gathered outside in the cool star-flecked night, lit by the half light from the hall's windows. I stood amongst the crowd, my sister beside me as Staunch fired up the silver Mustang, adorned with 'Just Married' on the back window.

Then they were going, exhortations, salutations, hands waving. They drove slowly past me and Gwyneth's eyes met mine. It was an echo of that look we had exchanged at the river, a strong echo, a look that said many things, that was acknowledging and grateful at the same time. Grateful because I had given her what she wanted, I had brought Staunch back, a new Staunch and together they were about to make their bid for freedom and happiness. I stood and waved with all the rest but even in that moment I knew that I would always wonder what might have happened and as I watched the faint blue tongues of exhaust flame disappear into the night, I secretly hoped that Gwyneth would wonder too.

* * *
The Interview

I had decided that nobody ever really did any work in the world except on Wednesdays. When you work on a newspaper, Mondays are quiet, Tuesdays a little busier, Wednesdays very busy, Thursdays not quite so busy and Fridays - well, nothing happens on a Friday - people have already travelled into the near future, they are already drinking iced tea round the swimming pool, carving great hunks off their handicaps on the golf course and stepping bare-footed into sunset bathed beach shallows. So it was a Wednesday, and busy, when I got the letter from Prometheus Publishing, an imprint of a large multi-national publishing house, handed to me by the Arts and Culture editor.

I had worked for the Morning Star for just over a year since completing my training, and at the age of twenty five had already given up any illusions about meeting shadow-faced men in grey raincoats in dark, echoing parking bays, smoking acrid Camels and muttering in tense and mysterious tones - "follow the money." Instead I spent my time on the weather and writing the obituaries for the destined to be deceased.

Obituaries are written well before the person of note dies as a general rule, so that the copy is ready to go into the paper the same day, or an hour or two after the notable has passed on. It was a thankless task, never seeing your work in print except on those odd occasions when someone from 'The Morgue,' (the library files of obituaries) finally snuffed it. I was working on updating the achievements of one Joe Healmount, a former prominent trade unionist who had recently made it into parliament, when the Arts and Culture editor gave me the letter. Audrey was mid forties, with short white-blonde hair, a snappy dresser and an experienced news hound.

"Special treat for you," she said. "Gwen can't do it for a variety of reasons far too complicated to explain to a mere mortal like you, so we're sending you along instead. Have you read him? Jack Jamieson?"

Had I read him? Everybody had read Jack Jamieson. I was a fan.

"I've read all his books," I said, somewhat amazed and excited that this juicy morsel of an assignment had fallen into my hands. "And I studied two of his books at university."

"Oh, well." Audrey gave a crooked smile. "That makes you almost an expert then. Have you read the latest?"

"No, not yet. I've read a couple of reviews." The new book thumped down on to the desk in front of me.

"Read it before you interview him, he'll think you're intelligent. You're rostered on that night anyway aren't you?"

"Yeah. No ... that's fine. I can't wait actually."

"He hasn't given interviews for years, so I don't know what's brought him out of the woodwork. Anyway ... I'll be interested to hear what he has to say. I've heard various things about him. Some people reckon he hasn't done anything worthwhile since the _Blue Tiki_ , that he's yesterday's news. So I'll be interested to know what you think of this one. Okay?"

"Okay."

I picked up the book, an indigo, bluish cover - _In The Shadow of the Swallow_ \- and looked at the back cover:

A middle-aged man's search for his missing daughter in the black back streets of London leads to a journey down the avenues of his own life, a search for meaning to suffering and loss, a search for the idealist of his youth, a quest to reunite with those lost and loved, and to discover the truth about broken ties and destinies ...

I looked at the photo of Jack Jamieson. At sixty six his face was deep-lined, weathered - no, more than that - it was the Grand Canyon of faces, it was as if someone had taken to him with an etching chisel after each moment of sadness, rebuff, remorse, passion, grief - it was a topographical map of the human heart and it was the skin, the visage, of a craggy prophet, the storyteller, the shaman. The eyes were a little narrowed, somewhat morose, liquid-looking, but even in the photo the backlight of intellect could be seen through their star-flecked irises. The mouth was set as if about to expostulate some revelation, a determination at the corners, the lips a little too thin, out of proportion. All in all, it was a face that seemed to tell of wisdom and insight and suffering all rolled into one, it was the face of a thinker.

I wanted to start reading then and there but I got back to the obituary, figuring that Joe Healmount would probably live another twenty years anyway, by which time I might be dead myself. After work I called in to the public library and took out a biography of Jamieson. It had been written some ten years before so there was a certain amount of water under the bridge since then, but now that I was going to meet the man who had kept me awake at the age of twenty till four in the morning unwilling to put down the _Blue Tiki_ , I wanted to look into the mirror of his past, albeit through the eyes of his closest friend and fellow writer, Ronnie Trulow.

Later that evening my two flatmates went out to some art house movie and I declined to join them in favour of _Within the Long White Cloud - the Jack Jamieson Story_. I reclined on the sofa with the classical station on in the background, imbibed ground coffee and took a journey through Jamieson's formative years. It was actually nothing remarkable. He came from a quiet, suburban family down south, the mother a kind of - Country Woman's Institute, PTA, make a pavlova desert blindfolded with one arm tied behind her back and knitting for the refugees in far-off and presumably chilly climes kind of woman - the father a civil servant, Rotary Club, weekend rugby referee, lawns, roast lamb and cricket on Sunday sort of chap.

There was nothing really to indicate who the young, only child, Jack Jamieson might be except that both his parents were voracious readers and read everything from _Reader's Digest_ to _Woman's Weekly_ and Dickens to Dostoevsky. Books jammed every cupboard and filled every empty space, there was little TV watched in the Jamieson house, and Jack, frail and un-athletic, a somewhat insular and lonely child, travelled long and strange distances in the caravans and trains between the covers of books containing many as yet unseen vistas of human landscape.

He went to university, did well, and then seemed to step off the conveyer belt taking him to the tall-steepled towers of middle class sobriety, success and security, opting instead for work as a sheep shearer, a truck driver, a guard on the railways, fruit picking - anything and everything it seemed that allowed him to mix the New Zealand milieu upon the palette of his imagination and experience. In all of this he found time to write - he wrote and wrote. If he was cutting scrub up in the back blocks, he would sit down with hurricane lantern and pen and paper while the others cajoled him to play cards and have a beer. He would have the beer but he would write. It wasn't until he was in his late thirties, after the steady success of the _Blue Tiki_ that he actually took to writing full-time.

The biography was as much a homage as a recounting of a life. Ronnie Trulow seemed to be on the verge of awe when speaking of his friend, and Trulow and his wife Patricia seemed to have been Jamieson's only constant companions through life besides his family. Other friends seemed to fade in and out, like ghosts that manifested then dematerialised in a play, delivering their lines, then gone. Ronnie, Patricia and Jack had been drawn together at university at a kind of literary club, a very bohemian, beret, coffee, cigarettes and candles, what did you think of Chekov? Mansfield? kind of tribal enchantment. After university, as Jamieson travelled the country, learning its ways and its language, its mores and its hidden heart, they all kept in touch, mainly by letter. They were all prolific and fluent in letter writing and grand discourses flowed between them across the months and the currents of the growing years. Somewhere along the line Ronnie married Patricia and Jack was their best man.

Jamieson himself had several relationships, three of them marriages, which all seemed to begin with a spark and an incandescent flash and then fade and dim and end in a tangle of accusations and recriminations and take on a new dark fire as his ex-wives battled him, sometimes in the press and on one occasion, the courts. His first wife, Alexi, he married when he was twenty six and she was twenty four. She was a country girl he met on a shearing gang, part Maori, working as a rousie gathering in the wool. He took her to the city and tried to take her with him to the word castles and citadels of his heart but she yearned for the Marae - the tribal meeting house \- and the country morning sunrise, so cool and so eye cutting bright. She went back after too many beer and whiskey filled fights and he was left alone in those word winding streets, falling back into his routine with Ronnie and Patricia.

His second wife he met two years later, and she could not have been more of a contrast to Alexi. While married to Alexi he had begun writing his first novel, and in the first year after she left him it was published. _A Season of Spite_ found a home in its native land, though there was something a little disconcerting in the black clouds that slid between its pages. It was a tale of bitter family feuding across two generations beginning in the Great Depression and its graphic scenes of family violence seemed too much for most people. But it found a pair of wings to carry it and in England it found a place to fly. It was published there to great acclaim and the subsequent success led Jamieson to the Mother Land and a round of celebratory and celebrity parties on the chic streets of London. He was found at soirees, art gallery openings, cafes of the cultured and anywhere a young man who had opened a dark window into the Antipodean, South Pacific soul might be invited.

_A Season of Spite_ , riding the updraft of overseas success and not having brought the collapse of civilization or the implosion of the nuclear family in ancient, steadfast and staid Great Britain, gained new notoriety and impetus in its author's native land and began to receive much praise and not a little condemnation, notably from the Family Protection Society. They could not be shaken from the belief that reading and writing of family violence was tantamount to condoning it. They raised a hue and cry in the press, the publicity ensuring excellent sales for the book and Jamieson's first, but not only foray into the crossfire of literary controversy.

It was while in England and upon this glittering carousel of success that he met Anthea Muldridge, the daughter of Old Money and lots of it. Anthea had a taste for art and literature and could be seen at the same functions as the "charming New Zealand author," Jack Jamieson. It was not long before she succumbed to the novelty of a man whose persona had been honed in the backblocks of the farms and the hotel bars and railway stations of a South Pacific county of England, and who also, fascinatingly, was a man of intellect, creativity and indeed, success. They married and still in the thrall of this rough-hewn wielder of words, she agreed to travel and live in the distant country where she was sure they would prosper and she would be endlessly intrigued by this aggressive, agrarian, yet erudite culture.

Of course it was an unmitigated disaster. On her first week there Anthea was appalled to discover the dearth of professional theatres and the paucity of quality restaurants, not to mention that the house within which she and Jack were destined to live was painted pale pink and made entirely of wood! Not only that, but Jack had never quite left the workaday world from which he drew his characters and inspiration and Anthea soon grew tired of being caught between the worlds of the literati and the 'lagerati.' She filed for divorce and took a fast boat back to London, resolved to never reveal the ordinary circumstances in which she had found herself.

This was a severe blow to Jamieson and he was thrown once more onto the ropes where Ronnie and Patricia were waiting to ready him for the next round. It was a second cut, almost as deep as the first, but it was also a creative period for him and during the divorce proceedings Jamieson's second novel, _The Winter Quartet_ , was published.

It dealt with the lives of four star-crossed lovers of a bohemian caste who were caught in the dilemmas and dangers of a conservative nineteen fifties New Zealand. It examined the destiny of loves forged outside the social mores of the times and was seen as a worthy successor to the first novel, selling well in both New Zealand and England where Jamieson's star still maintained its hold in the vast-studded firmament.

Following the success of the second novel, Jamieson and Ronnie opened a second hand bookshop called _The Quill_ , which flourished and made a meagre living for them both, Jamieson being mainly in the managerial role, writing much of his time, while Ronnie stood behind the counter, eager to press into the hands of customers copies of some rare New Zealand novel, out of print but not out of mind. It was during this period Jamieson met his third and final wife, the poet Josephine Brandenell, a poet by night and librarian by day, who had like him, been published at home and abroad and met him when she came into _The Quill_ in a bid to find a replacement copy of _Paradise Lost_.

Jamieson and she were quickly taking up large portions of each other's time and within four months had gotten married, Jamieson's choice, Josephine being content to cohabit. It seemed Jamieson was certain he had found his life, literary and love match in Josephine and he planted fields of kind flowers around her and painted the skies above her with beauty. Even Ronnie and Patricia were moved to remark to one another upon the change in Jack, how good natured his love towards the fair Josephine was.

So it came as a complete surprise to everybody, including Jack, when Josephine found him in bed with a close personal friend of hers, a clarinet player with red-fire hair and long dextrous fingers perennially dipped in pink nail polish. Josephine believed in forgiveness as a general principle, but not for men, and demanded Jack avail himself of the services of a lawyer for his third and final divorce.

It was after that Jack added drinking as an occupation to writing, both seemed to solace him and he seemed to give both equal weight. It was in the corridors of the long house of grief that Jamieson wrote the novel that was to flash across the sky in his most incandescent hour - _The Blue Tiki_.

The novel told the story of a New Zealand family from the pioneering days, the eighteen seventies and a family of their descendants in the early nineteen seventies. Passed down through these families is a rare, and some say magical, pounamu, (greenstone) Maori Tiki, the like of which has never been seen before. Jamieson described the Tiki in this way:

The small carved figure sat content in the palm of his hand, a beatific expression on its face. The pounamu was so pale, was so translucent it almost glowed a kind of pale blue. It was as if you could see into the heart of the distant past, a turquoise mist that spoke of mysteries gone but not necessarily forgotten. Through it were swirls of what looked like white vapours, like galaxies drifting within it. It was more than beautiful, it was a piece of perfection in a world of dark journeys.

In the eighteen seventies, Samuel, the eldest son of a family of pakehas, (Europeans) - falls in love with a young Maori woman, Mereana, and seeks to marry her. The marriage is opposed by Mereana's tribe and the pakeha family. In the end she is forced into a marriage of political convenience to someone from a neighbouring tribe, and the lovers are thwarted. The Blue Tiki was given to her when she was a girl by an ancient, wild-haired woman, living out in the depths of The Bush, a recluse from the tribe who has chosen to live alone and keep alive the old ways. Some say she is mad, some say she can perform magic. When Mereana is a child she gets to know the old woman who shows her special favour. One day, knowing her time of death is near, she gives Mereana the Blue Tiki, telling her to give it to one she truly loves if ever she and her lover are parted. When Samuel and Mereana are forced to separate she gives him the Tiki as a farewell gesture. The old woman has told her that one day the Blue Tiki's power will bring them back together in the spirit world.

In the second half of the novel, in the nineteen seventies, the youngest son of the descendants, also called Samuel, is handed the Blue Tiki by his grandmother as a dying gift, and he is told the story attached to it. It becomes for him a symbol of his search for love, identity and a spiritual meaning to the present. This time, the barriers to the lovers uniting are class distinction, self-doubt, the tidal pull of a materialistic, status driven world and a dissatisfaction with the status quo of their culture. All the while, the nineteen seventies Samuel, is looking back to the past, across the narrative of a country raised from the dark clay of bloody conflict and division.

Another theme of _The Blue Tiki_ was the inter-connectedness of all people, across centuries, across great events and trauma, as if a mystical force, symbolised by the permanence and endurance of the Tiki itself, was reaching across space and time and holding people together. That in the end we are all one and that love is like a great river that runs through from the past to the present and beyond, a river that subsumes and carves away prejudice and narrow-minded constraints. The Tiki shows that we are not only the descendants of those past, but a reflection of their hopes and dreams.

_The Blue Tiki_ was published simultaneously in Britain and Australasia and was awarded the Dragon Memorial Prize, then one of Britain's top literary awards. It had been part of the curricula in my literature course at university and of all the books that I felt close to, it drew me in and on the furthest. My whole tutorial seemed to find it inspirational and it was one of those books you could spend a conversation on in the cafeteria over ever cooling coffee and half a packet of Camel cigarettes.

*

Jamieson's biography then began to deal with his two subsequent novels, neither of which fell quite so dramatically from the sky. In fact both were regarded as somewhat less than _The Blue Tiki_ had been, a fact Ronnie Trulow was prepared to acknowledge but he spoke in spirited defence of the two books, both of which dealt with failed romances and were somewhat autobiographical as Jamieson tried to come to terms with his string of failed relationships. That was where the biography ended, but Trulow was in no doubt about Jamieson's contribution to the ever rising tower of local literature, his was one of the founding stones, his initials raised in relief upon it; "I was here, J.J."

Over the next few days I read Jamieson's new book, _In the Shadow of the Swallow_ , and though I was aware it had not set the literature sections of the bookshops ablaze, it showed a steady and practiced hand, and its protagonist's search for meaning and his daughter down the dim lit streets of wrong-side London was an echo of _The Blue Tiki's_ theme and power, and at the end of it I was glad to have read it. It was a satisfying journey through the acute vistas and still smouldering visions of a fine mind. I was looking forward to the interview and with the photograph provided with the press release I was looking at three quarters of a page. It would be a good addition to the clippings book and just to have a tete-a-tete with the source of so much insight and unravelling of a country's interior inspired me and kept me awake at night wondering what he might have to say, or how close I could get to the spring waters of his creativity in one hour. I prepared all my questions two days before and on the Thursday afternoon was tense, anticipating, nervous and ready.

*

The Regent was one of the newer, taller and aesthetically pleasing hotels, only recently opened and had an air of chic bravado about it, a sort of mid-eighties minimalist resonance, a sense of being clean, neat and if buildings could wear an Armani suit and silk tie it did. So stepping into Jamieson's room was quite a surprise. He had managed to make a spacious, modern and somewhat gleaming room look more in keeping with something from a film noir movie. The only thing I didn't see was the red neon sign with a few letters missing, humming and glaring through the venetian blinds.

There were clothes strewn all about the room, across the bed, chairs, on the table - they were rumpled and discarded like shed skins. The room was also full of the odour of a man, of sweat and cigarettes and something sombre. A pale blue cloud circled the light, no doubt from the half empty carton of cigarettes and the crumpled packets which were here and there, looking like concertinaed cars in a wreckers yard, with their aluminium foil fenders bent and torn. In the centre of the room was a glass table with steel legs, upon the table was a half empty bottle of Forty Five South whiskey and beside it three or four glasses, with cast-offs of cigarettes in some of them, ash flecking the sides and the lees of the whiskey glowing dark amber in the haze of the one light bulb he had going.

Jamieson was sitting in a recliner chair with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigarette in the ashtray beside him. He was shrunken, was lined like cracked leather, seemed somehow too small for the room. He seemed like a king who long ago had fought victorious but had paid dear for each victory. But as his hand clasped mine, his without getting up, there was no doubting the power and intensity of his grasp; he half smiled and bade me sit on the sofa adjacent and offered me a drink. Although not usually a whiskey drinker, I accepted and as he poured I set up the tape recorder and took out my pad - if the tape deck breaks down or the tape gets wiped, you've always got your notes.

I busied myself flicking the pages of the pad backwards and forwards, swallowing down the nervous ball that seemed to want to leap up from my abdomen and out through my throat in some senseless pleasantry. I had done my share of interviews but none with someone who had held up a mirror so dark and deep before my eyes, had taken my imagination so far into the past and into the destiny of my country. I was at the borders of awe. I looked at him again. Here I am, I told myself, alone in the room with Jack Jamieson, I'm actually interviewing him, and as he raised his glass to his lips and swallowed down the whiskey like it was milk, I began.

"I suppose you've had a truckload of people through today?"

"I wouldn't say truckloads. I would say there has been a modicum of interest in the new book, for which I am grateful." The voice reminded me of once seeing a stone polisher, turning and grinding, and he had a leonine growl at the back of his words that seemed out of keeping with his small stature.

"The new book takes place largely in London. Did you spend time there? In the areas featured?"

"I haven't been to London for five years. But then the book is set five years ago. So I relied on my memory and imagination, neither of which have decided to resign in protest despite my mistreatment of them over many decades." He smiled and slugged back another dollop of the whiskey. I half laughed and took a sip of my own drink. It had a cube of ice in it but it burned and flared down my throat and into my stomach.

"The fate of the daughter in London is uncertain at the end of the book. Did you want to use this as a metaphor? Or was it just a reflection of life, its realities?"

"You're not going to write how the book ends are you?" He smiled at me with his eyes over the rim of the glass.

"No ... I just thought - "

"Not to worry." He picked up the cigarette and inhaled deeply, burning up a significant portion of its length. The blue smoke seemed to colour his very words as he spoke. "I don't think he finds her because it's so damned difficult to find anybody really, in the end. We think we do, all the time. People are forever saying to one another, 'I love you,' but in reality they haven't even met.

"I suppose it's about going to the ends of the Earth for those you love, but in the end, there's no guarantee that you'll find them, or find them where you expected them to be. It's just more realistic, really. That and I suppose the theme of loss, how he comes to terms with this brute fact of life and finds the 'raison d'etre' of his own existence. I don't expect the ending would pass a test screening but I haven't had any screenplay offers yet anyway." He smiled once more and leaned forward to refill his glass, noisily dropping in a cube of ice from the nearby ice bucket.

"And the daughter's flight to London? Was that just for the sake of the plot or did you have a metaphorical purpose in mind?"

"A metaphorical purpose ... " He considered the words for a moment and drew again on the cigarette. "It's just the Godwit thing really isn't it? The way those determined birds migrate so far every year. The search for a shore where you will no longer be a stranger. A beach where you can stand and feel your feet sink into the black wet sand as the foreign sea welcomes you in the way that your own land has not. A search for identity, for freedom, experience ... unfortunately, it is a wicked world and so she falls. Seek and ye shall find ... maybe."

I took another sip of the burning drink and jotted on my pad in my rapidest shorthand. The rest of the first part of the interview were questions to do with the new book and were the things everybody would be asking him. He had probably answered them ten times already. I was actually looking forward to the second part, where I planned to ask him some questions about his early career and the days of _The Blue Tiki_ , but as I continued to speak with him our eye contact became less and less, he smiled less frequently, he lit up one cigarette after another and his glass was never empty.

I almost had the sensation that he was alone in some blue lit dim cavern, intoning a ritual he knew by rote, as if I was some disembodied voice and it was merely his duty to respond. He heard my questions, he answered, but he was in a grey-blue fogged carriage, journeying to God knows where. I was disappointed we were not more engaged - the best interviews are those that flow, just like a conversation, and this was simple Q and A and he knew all the answers and it seemed, the questions. I persevered. When I had enough to write what I wanted about the new book I took a sip of my drink and decided to begin on the more general questions I had planned.

"I wonder if I can ask you a few questions about your career in general? About the past?"

"The past?" He looked away across the room and seemed to be puzzled for a moment. He sipped on his drink, dragged on the cigarette, puffed out. "The past my young friend, is a vacant lot. It's just cracked concrete and overgrown weeds. It's a place where something used to be, and there's no point going there anymore."

"Oh ... I just thought ... a few general questions ... "

"No, no, by all means. Let's swing by the old neighbourhood and see the sparkling minarets we have raised in our memories."

"Right ... well, I mean if you're sure. I mean, that's what I had planned for the second part of the article, you know .... "

"No, no ... it's fine, fire away. Others have asked me, no reason why you shouldn't."

I hesitated at that moment. He seemed to have become very maudlin, and I suspected very drunk. If I had been smarter I would have cut my losses and gone with what I had, but this was still the opportunity of a lifetime, I was still in the room with Jack Jamieson and the tape was turning, capturing that dry river bed voice and the experience and light behind it. I decided to press on.

"I wanted to ask you about _The Blue Tiki_ ," I began. "I read it when I was twenty, studied it at university and I just loved it, we all did, all the people I knocked round with were into it, you know? I just thought when I was reading it, what was his inspiration? What made him write this particular thing? How much of it was based on his own experience? So that's what I'd like to ask you first, what were your experiences, what was the seed for _The Blue Tiki_?"

He stared straight ahead for a moment and then took a long swallow of the whiskey. He reached for the cigarette and then shook his head.

"You mean ... where do I get my ideas?"

"Well ... no ... yes ... I mean, in respect of _The Blue Tiki_ ... yes. I mean ... what was the genesis of the idea?"

"Where do I get my ideas ... " He looked vacantly ahead of him and flicked ash from the end of his cigarette. He considered the question for a long time. The affability, what there had been, suddenly seemed to fade out of his expression, as if someone was painting shadows into the lines upon his face, as if there were caverns opening up behind his eyes. When he did begin to speak he seemed to be talking to himself. "Where do I get my ideas ... where do _you_ get _your_ ideas. Where does anybody get their ideas. From their bloody brain I suppose. I suppose that's where I got the idea for it, from my bloody brain, from looking round me and seeing what was there, from taking some notice of what goes on in the world and then writing about it. So that's where I got the idea, from there ... out there in the world, looking at it with my bloody brain."

I was dumbstruck. His acidity could not be mistaken. It was like a little black incendiary ball had gone off between us and had showered me with black biting sparks. Just at that moment the tape deck clicked off and with a rising tide of mortification seeping up from my middle to my face and ears I bent down to turn the tape over. But the tape running out seemed to be a signal or an excuse for Jamieson to extricate himself from my company. He stood up and clanked the glass down on the table with a sound like he was unfastening the bolts of a lock.

"Well I think we'll call it a day at that shall we?" he said, and his gaze held mine, steady, slate grey, unapologetic.

"Okay, if you like," I said standing up. I picked up the tape recorder and slipped it in my jacket pocket, I slipped the notepad into the other pocket, my face burning all the while. I tried to summon up a small detachment of dignity to defend the last ramparts.

"Well ... I must say, it's been an honour to interview the author of _The Blue Tiki_." Even as I said it I realised how ingratiating it sounded, but I couldn't muster that detachment after all. "It really inspired me when I read it and it really is a great honour. I suppose the last interview of the day's always a bit of a drag?"

"Well, I'm used to it," Jamieson said, and his smile returned, polite and mouth only, the eyes still cold grey.

"Okay ... well, I'll leave you to it. Thanks very much for your time and good luck with the book."

The next thing I knew Jamieson had said goodbye and I was in the hall walking towards the elevator wondering exactly what had gone wrong. There was this kind of vast, bland wallpaper of nothingness inside me upon which my ego sat like a small black insignificant fly. I don't like to mention it, but I swear as I got into the elevator and the doors closed, there were the beginnings of tears in my eyes as I was carried down and down and Jamieson's face, the burning whiskey and blue cloud room receded and shrunk to a pinpoint.

*

Ten years later at the age of seventy six, Jamieson died of liver failure. The story and later an obituary, (not written by me this time, I had long since moved on from The Morgue), ran in the paper and I read it with interest. I still remembered that night a decade before, travelling down in the elevator, benumbed, belittled and just wondering why, or perhaps I should say how. How could a man like Jamieson have been so spiteful? He was known for his sense of compassion, his characters shone with their dreams and their foibles, their despair and their frailty, even the worst of them seemed to glow from within with the inner light of humanity. Jamieson was sympathetic, empathetic, forgiving to the ink black characters that lived and breathed beneath his pen. How then could the man himself be so far from what I had believed of him, from what I had imbibed from between the pages of his books?

When I got home that night I went to the hall cupboard and dug out my old clippings book. I sat down with a beer and journeyed back to those early days in my career, finding the old article about Jamieson. I read it, sipping on the beer, and thought it adequate. I just wrote what everybody had written. I remembered when I had sat down the next day to type up the article I had a certain amount of indecision over what I would say, I was tempted to turn the guns of my word processor on him and lay down a few lines of typeset tracer across his bows. I could see the quote so clearly; "I get the ideas from my bloody brain." But something restrained me.

I figured you wouldn't quite understand unless you had been in that smoke choked blue lit room, with the detritus of life strewn on sofa and chair, the taste and the smell of the whiskey, like a hot syrup that never quite cured, that rough-stone voice with its acid inflection - you could listen to it on the tape but you'd never quite feel the power of it unless you were there, the power of it to cut like an abattoir knife, peeling the meat from the bone.

So I decided there was no point. I had been hurt but I still loved the books. Somehow that whiskey-breathed mouth muttering "where do you get _your_ ideas?" was disassociated from the Jack Jamieson who had penned _The Blue Tiki_ and taken my friends and I to the heart of the hump-backed islands where we lived and let us dream of a love that might be found in a world which was inimical to it. That our green-bushed and paua-shelled land had its own destiny. What then made Jack tick? Which was the real Jack Jamieson? A few weeks later I gained a clue.

I was reading, in my lunch-hour at work, the literary supplement of one of the London papers which we received on a weekly basis, and I came across an article that made me sit up as they say. It seemed a book of Jamieson's unsent letters was about to be published. A book of letters to one Patricia Trulow. It seemed that what the letters revealed was that Patricia had been the one true love of Jamieson's life, that he had loved her since their days at university, but she had preferred Ronnie from the start and gone on to marry him. It seemed she knew of Jamieson's feelings, but made it clear one night after too much wine tore loose too many words from Jamieson's tongue that the passion would never be reciprocated and that she loved Jack as a friend and that was all that would ever be. I was fascinated and three weeks or so later I had my own copy of the book of letters and perused it greedily.

As I read the ambiguity of my feelings towards Jamieson began to tilt, to lean over and sheer towards a deepening empathy. The more I read, the more I realised that Jamieson had been a man whom life had called on with a glittering, twisting lure, just ahead of him in the water. A man who had achieved all he had set out to do, but had been denied the love, the life, the lips, the bed of Patricia and had had to live his life as a stricken spectator to her happy marriage to Ronnie.

It had been doubly painful to him because he had loved them both and though each time he was with them part of him clamoured in bitter reproof against the world, against Patricia, against Ronnie, he would give neither of them up. So he would sit with them in their lounge, or at their dinner table, and no matter how tight he made the bandage, the wound would always seep, through his smile and lines of laughter were little drops of blood, left here and there on the floor, the furniture, and the years brought no requital.

He never mentioned his love for Patricia to her again and though he wrote to Ronnie and Patricia regularly there was no indication of the power of his passion. But it seemed that for every letter he wrote to Ronnie and Patricia, detailing the events and minutiae of his life, he wrote a separate letter to Patricia, letters he collected but never sent. Letters that were full of words like black horses that ran wild down dark valleys.

He wrote with a candour that was almost excruciating to read, the words were naked and without pretension, and all through his three marriages he kept up the secret correspondence, seeming to believe the marriages would act as a balm to this denial imposed upon him by the vagaries of desire, but discovering at the end of each liaison that Patricia was still that sun-splash spinning lure that drew him on, remorseless yet futile, in its glittering, turning wake.

Patricia died of cancer about five years after I had done the interview with Jamieson and Ronnie had followed her with a heart attack two years later. Jamieson had sought more and more the comfort of his hand grasped round the waist of a whiskey bottle, had found himself more and more alone and in the end just seemed to flicker and flare briefly before going out. But I began to understand, or a least glimpse the Jack Jamieson I had met that night in the hotel room turned cigarette and whiskey wasteland.

He had been denied the great love of his life, perhaps the one person, thing, he had ever truly loved. I began to imagine how bitter each breath of morning air, each stripe of sunshine across afternoon wall, each taste of just poured wine and every moment that he could not share must feel. Each caress of the strangers he married, each kiss and smile not the one he sought, I began to see how such a man could never forgive the world and could learn to hate the very water of life.

So who was Jack Jamieson? Was he the author who spoke so tellingly, indeed knowingly, of thwarted love in _The Blue Tiki_ , the man who imbued his created people with a sensibility towards life that he himself had perhaps abandoned? Or was he a short statured man, slumped in a reclining chair, in a room full of dirty laundry and whiskey stained table, a room aureole blue, an obfuscating, stifling, penumbral blue, making vituperative comments to a naive journalist when it would have cost him little to reply in kind to the question?

The truth was he was both. He was the man who brought _The Blue Tiki_ into being and inspired a generation, and he was the bitter drunk with the fag in his hand taking a cheap shot at a young man who did not know the source of his pain. I thought once again over the interview in the light of the unsent letters to Patricia and I was glad I had not mentioned in the article the moment it had turned sour.

I put the book of letters down and went into the kitchen and fetched another can of beer. Back in the lounge, I put the classical station on the radio, I took _The Blue Tiki_ from the bookcase, sat down with the beer and I began to read.

* * *
About the Author

I was born in Christchurch New Zealand in 1959. I was educated at Kapiti College high school and studied Renaissance Literature and Twentieth Century Literature at Victoria University in Wellington.

I have had a variety of jobs over the years, most notably as a journalist. I trained as a journalist at Wellington Polytechnic and worked for the New Zealand Press Association as a reporter and sub-editor where I edited local and international news and wrote hard news and the occasional feature article.

I was also a part-time rock musician specialising in vocals, guitar and song writing. I performed around the pubs and clubs of Wellington for about twenty years and still do the occasional gig. One of the highlights of my music career was being signed to Kiwi Pacific Records who released a twelve song album of my original music in the early 1990s.

I have had short fiction previously published in New Zealand literary fiction magazines such as Landfall, Takahe and Bravado.

I have lived mostly in the Wellington region and also spent some time in London. I am currently resident on the Kapiti Coast, north of Wellinton city. I am close to the sea and enjoy getting out in the summer sun for beach walks.

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