Hennessey’s Panel and Paint

Tom Hennessey was a spray painter and panel beater. Not just any spray painter and panel beater but the best spray-painter and panel beater around. He had been practicing his trade for years and his customers had nothing but praise for him. Tom liked that; happy customers talked to others and as far as he was concerned word of mouth was the best publicity he could get as it didn’t cost him any money. Money was important to Tom Hennessey; more important than friends and more important than family.
“Dad’s as tight as a bum on a goldfish,” his daughter Sal would explain.
Sal and Eve Hennessy, Tom’s long suffering wife, both worked for Hennessey’s Panel and Paint. For the years since they had become engaged and married Eve had worked as Tom’s secretary. As soon as Sal was old enough to help out she worked for her father too. The women worked six or seven days a week; the only time off being one or two days over Easter and Christmas. Even when Sal was born Eve was back at the workshop, nursing, three days after delivering.
Tom Hennessey didn’t pay his wife and he only begrudgingly put his daughter on junior wages when, at fifteen, she threatened to jump ship and work as a cashier at the local Woolworths. Family and friends quickly learnt that there were no mate’s rates at Hennessey’s Panel and Paint. Tom’s brother-in-law, Len, found out the hard way. He dropped his car off on a Saturday morning and Tom worked on it until Sunday afternoon. Eve’s brother expected to pay for paint and parts but was shocked and a little angry when Tom presented him with a receipt for not only paint and parts but the hours and overtime that Tom had worked. For his sister’s sake, Len swallowed his anger and paid the bill but he never again approached Tom for a favour.
Tom wasn’t bothered by what his friends and family thought. What mattered to him was making money and keeping the customers who paid walking back in his workshop doors and sending more customers to him via word of mouth.
“Nothing like free publicity,” Hennessey would say.
When Sal turned twenty-one she left her father’s workshop and his junior wages to study business and advertising. After a few months she managed to convince her mother that she could also leave and find a paying job. For the first time in 22 years Eve began to earn money and, with Sal’s help, began to enjoy spending it.
Tom was furious. He kicked his wife and daughter out of the house and refused to have any contact with them. He found he could still run his business. He bought an answering machine, a hot drink dispenser and hired a cleaner.
“Sponges,” he would snarl at anyone who asked after his family, “They were bleeding me dry, I’m better off without them.”
Funnily enough both Eve and Sal were the happiest they could remember being. The women bought a small house together and enjoyed their new found financial freedom. But that’s another story.
Tom Hennessey continued working well into his sixties when he started to think about retirement. In his mind’s eye he had a little place planned near Darwin. A fishing shack, a caravan; some peace and quiet.
He sold his business, bought a four-wheel-drive, packed a trailer with all his tools and drove north to the Territory.
No-one believed Tom would last five minutes without work of some sort. He managed a week. After seven days of sitting on the beach he used his cash (hidden in a safe under the driver’s seat of his Toyota) to buy a workshop and yard on the Stuart Highway into Darwin. He bought a caravan to sleep in and installed it in the workshop.
All he needed was customers. He placed his usual three line advert in the local paper and waited.
After a fortnight he found himself ringing an advertising company in town.
The executive was extremely helpful and offered Tom a range of packages including T.V., radio, internet and colour print adverts.
“What’s it gonna cost me?” Tom asked suspiciously.
The executive started to give Tom a costing schedule based on the different packages.
Tom hung up before the man had finished saying the first three digit figure,
“Bloody vultures!” he exclaimed, “They’ll bloody bleed me dry. What do they bloody know? Never worked a day in their life!”
He spent the afternoon grumbling furiously to himself and drinking from a bottle of Queensland rum. By early evening he had come up with an advertising package of his own.
He scoured the workshop and yard and found several lengths of sheet-metal and corrugated iron. Over the next few days he scrounged more metal and iron from the yards adjoining his own and began to cut, paint and sign write.
If Tom had listened to the radio he would have heard the severe weather warnings being broadcast. The residents of Darwin had been warned over three or four days to prepare themselves for strong winds and rain.  A tropical cyclone was blowing itself out off shore and was approaching the coastline. After the events of Cyclone Tracey in 1977 the town was well prepared and secure. No-one took chances anymore; everyone stayed close to the radio to listen to cyclone warning updates.
Everyone except Tom Hennessey, holed up in his workshop, working like a man possessed on his advertising. By the end of the week he had over six hundred beautifully detailed signs advertising his business. The only problem was he had no permission to hang the signs anywhere.
Tom waited until late Sunday night when he took his loaded trailer through the suburbs and the city hanging his signs anywhere he could find space. The town was quiet, no traffic; Tom couldn’t believe his luck.  By two in the morning his arms and shoulders ached from trying to hang the signs in an ever increasing wind but all they were all up. He returned to his caravan in his workshop and slept soundly.
He didn’t hear the storm hit at three am. Wind gusts of up to one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour screamed across town picking up any unsecured debris and hurling it through the air like missiles.
Tom woke at seven thirty, made a cup of coffee and ambled out of his caravan to check his answering machine. The lights flashed brightly and he happily read 45 messages. He clicked his tongue in satisfaction.
“Who needs TV?” he chuckled to himself as he opened up the workshop and stepped into the yard. His eyes widened and he grinned greedily as he saw rows of cars parked outside his gates, shining in the morning rain. He had to stop himself from dancing with joy.
“Nothing like free publicity!” he joked to himself as he unlocked the gates.
An angry looking man stepped down from his vehicle holding a piece of crumpled sheet metal. Tom noticed branches and debris strewn across the wet highway,
“Some storm last night. Must have blown it’s ring off.” He said to the man, “Can I help you mate?”
The man shoved the metal into Tom’s hands. Tom looked down at the dented remains of one of his signs.
“Is this yours mate?” the man asked, “I found it this morning buried in my car roof. I believe you’re going to fix it for me.”
Tom looked at the huge tear in the roof of the expensive four wheel drive then looked at all the vehicles waiting in line with their angry owners holding crumpled metal signs and similar damage to their own cars. He began to feel a little unwell.
The news of Tom Hennessey’s foray into self-advertising made the news not just in Darwin and Katherine but across the country. Within hours it had crossed the world and was being picked up on TV, radio and the internet. Rumour has it that Tom Hennessey fled Darwin with what little money he had left after paying damages to the people and city of Darwin. Some say he’s down in Coober Pedy hiding under-ground trying to rebuild his fortune fossicking opals.
There’s nothing like free publicity.
 

Queen’s Fancy

Queen’s Fancy

The days of the Pageant are a blur of activity. The afternoons are spent on the barge participating in and watching performances; the evenings find most travellers celebrating at The Golden Camel ‘til the wee small hours; the mornings are spent recuperating and exploring the town. I have a room at The Golden Camel, where my belongings are safely stowed, but I prefer to sleep off the night’s festivities on the beach.
One morning, after a particularly raucous evening at The Golden Camel, I awake to find myself in the sleeping quarters of a small, red yacht. I cannot for the life of me remember how or why I am here. I groggily make my way above deck and am immediately greeted by a cheery male voice,
“Ready to rock and roll, Chefleur?”
I force my eyes to open and register a young man with dark, curly hair, twinkling eyes and an infectious smile.
“Come again?” I croak grasping my head to stop it from falling in two.
“Are you ready to dive and appease the Tritan?” he smiles, “You were gung-ho last night, brought all your gear with you too.”
He indicates my bag and pack. I groan remembering suddenly, with too much clarity, the night before. A group of us had been downing a particularly powerful concoction called an Alien Brain Haemorrhage. After 9 or 10 rounds (or more?), interspersed with some vigorous dancing and a howling competition (no wonder my throat hurt!) we decided that the time had come to appease the Tritan. We had stumbled to the docks, singing at the top of our voice (something about leaving a hat?) and had apparently commandeered our boats. Fortunately for us the boats’ crews had convinced us that appeasing the Tritan could wait.
As far as I was concerned, this morning, the Tritan could wait a while longer. The yacht shifts gently beneath me, my stomach lurches. The Tritan could wait a lot longer.
I sit down heavily and try to focus on my feet.
“Here, have some coffee.”
A mug of steaming, sweet, strong black coffee appears and I gratefully accept it.
“Thankyou,” I croak, inhaling the wonderful aroma.
“I’m Vitorro, your Captain,” the smiling man sitting across from me says, “You can call me Vito. Welcome aboard the Queen’s Fancy.”
“Thankyou Vito.” I say, trying to move my head as little as possible, “I think, under the circumstances, diving can wait for today.”
Vito chuckles,
“Just let me know when you’re ready. You’re welcome to bunk here ‘til you’re ready to leave for Mudjimba.”
This seems perfect; I could use a couple of quiet nights to clear my head before I head out to the island. I nod in agreement then hold my head in agony. Vito chuckles again,
“Tell you what; I’ll take you out to Morning Lagoon. It’s the perfect spot for a hangover cure.”
Before I can reply he springs up and is busying himself casting off, coiling ropes, hoisting the sail and we are pulling out of the docks. His energy, enthusiasm and cheerfulness are exhausting to watch. I drag myself into a nearby hammock, pull my hat over my eyes and gratefully sink into oblivion.
When I wake up I find we are surrounded by a sea of brilliant blue. Not too far off on the shore palm trees nod above pure white sand. On the far side of the lagoon I can see the surf breaking over a wall of natural rocks. The lagoon itself is blue, beautiful and serene.
“Amazing” I whisper.
“Pretty good eh?” Vito grins appearing from below deck, “You hungry?”
On the deck a table is laid with a platter of fresh pineapple, mangoes and grapes; a plate of crisp bacon, eggs and toast; a pot of coffee and a jug of water.
“Wow!” I exclaim. My stomach rumbles in agreement. I am starving.
Vito and I sit down to eat. While I enjoy my breakfast Vito explains that the Queen’s Fancy was built by his great-grandfather. It has been handed down from father to son ever since,
“My family has always been sailors.” He smiles proudly. I admire the boat. It certainly is beautiful. Before I know it Vito has cleared the table.
“How about a swim?”  He asks. The water is incredibly inviting and I need to wash out the grime and sweat from the night before.
I head down to my cabin to change. Afterwards I sort through my pack and I find the music box. I have been so busy with the Pageant that I had forgotten it.
I open the lid and the beautiful music surrounds me. I am transported by its sadness. I cannot hear anything else. The cabin door swings open and Vito’s face leans in briefly and then disappears. I come to with shock, Ahmed’s warning ringing vividly in my ears. I shut the music box and stuff it into my bag then rush above deck. Vito is nowhere to be seen. I begin to panic and start to sob, dashing from one side of the yacht to the other, screaming Vito’s name. What have I done?
I am sitting on the side of the yacht crying and crying when Vito surfaces from underneath the Queen’s Fancy. His grinning face soon becomes puzzled.
“Oh Vito, Vito!” I cry, “You’re here! You’re still here!”
“What?”
“You’re here, you haven’t disappeared, I didn’t kill you!”
Vito shakes his head as he climbs aboard,
“I can’t hear you.”
I stop in shock, then start sobbing afresh. I’ve cursed him anyway; he’s deaf as a stone. This is terrible. I sink to my knees in front of him.
“Oh Vito, Vito I’m so, so sorry! Please forgive me”
Vito grabs me by the shoulders and lifts me to my feet, real concern showing on his face, “Hang on Chefleur,” he says, reaching to his ears with his hands, “I’ve put bees wax in my ears and I can’t hear a thing you’re saying. Is everything okay?”
“Wax? In your ears?” I sniff and hiccough.
“Yes,” he smiles, holding out his hand and showing me two balls of wax “It keeps the water out. What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I feel very foolish and very relieved. I begin to giggle at the absurdity of it all. Finally I compose myself enough to tell Vito the story. He shakes his head.
“That Ahmed has some strange things in his stall, I’m not saying his story is true but I would be careful with that box. There is some powerful magic around the Kerith River. I’m just glad my ears were blocked!” he looks at me and begins to laugh, “You should have seen your face…Oh Vito! Forgive me, forgive me!”
He mimics my crying and weeping and collapses in giggles. I thump him,
“Are you always so cheerful?” I cry in mock exasperation.
“Always!” he crows, “Come, let’s swim!”
My fears are forgotten and washed away by this joyous young man and the beautiful Morning Lagoon.
 

The Queen of Sheba’s Music Box

 

I spend a pleasant afternoon being entertained on the pageant barge. The traveller’s performances are brilliant and inspiring. This early in the trip I feel great sense of peace and belonging. I feel as though I have joined a group of sisters with whom I already have a very strong bond.
As the sun sets over the waters of Rainbow Beach I head back to shore to find food and lodgings for the night. To get to town I pass through the Night Markets on the beach. The stalls are illuminated with lamps and lanterns of different shapes, colours and sizes. In the soft twilight the effect is charming and magical.
“Welcome to the night Markets Madam,” an oily voice whispers at my shoulder, “Is there anything I can tempt you with, my lovely?”
I turn to see a small, thin, dark haired man standing beside me. Behind him is a small stall crowded with objects. Its hand-painted sign boasts “Ahmed’s Amazing Antiques and Historical Artifacts from Around the World”.
In the lamplight shadows flicker across his face and I cannot tell if he is smiling  or leering. I dismiss a momentary sensation of unease; I won’t let anything spoil this perfect day.
Ahmed quickly slips into his stall and begins to offer me all types of trinkets and oddities talking all the while. My eye, however, is caught by a small gold box, no bigger than a deck of cards. I pick it up. It is beautifully decorated with tiny precious stones and intricate filigree.
“Aaah yes…you like?” he asks, rubbing his hands together in undisguised greed. I ignore him and undo the delicate latch to open the hinged lid.  As soon as it opens a sweet melody begins to play and I begin to feel unsteady on my feet. The music stops abruptly as Ahmed slams the lid shut with something akin to panic in his eyes. Was he afraid?
“You cannot open that here!” he hisses fiercely.
“What?” I am incredibly curious and a little taken aback at the sudden change in his demeanour.
“If you want this box, I will sell it to you,” he whispers, “but you must only open it when you are completely alone. There must never be anyone else with you. It is far too powerful and dangerous.”
I smile and laugh a little,
“What are you talking about?”
Ahmed looks around nervously before clearing his throat. Leaning closer he continues,
“This music box once belonged to the Queen of Sheba. It was made for her by the high court jeweller of King Solomon himself. The Queen fell in love with the music box, just as she had fallen in love with the King. She was an incredibly passionate and jealous woman and refused to let anyone else touch or listen to her gift.
It is told that one day a maid servant, whilst cleaning the Queen’s chamber, slipped the music box into the folds of her robes. When the Queen discovered the box was missing she was furious. She had the entire palace turned upside down until it was found. The maid in question was severely punished for her crime. The Queen had her eyes put out and her eardrums pierced before throwing her into the palace dungeons. There she stayed until she died.”
Ahmed pauses  as if for effect; the background sounds of the market suddenly feel very far away.
“It is said that from that day forward a curse was set upon the music box. If anyone who was not the rightful owner listens to the music box they will be damned to spend eternity rotting in the chambers of Sheba’s prison unable to hear or see. You are lucky I shut the lid when I did,” he speaks earnestly, “Else everyone on this beach, including you, would have been doomed.”
He looks behind me and I turn to watch the happy crowds apparently safe, this time, from certain death. I look back at him, skeptical,
“If it was Sheba’s music box then she still must be the rightful owner”
“Oh no my love,” Ahmed replies, the oiliness and gleam returning to his voice and eyes, “The rightful owner is she who pays the right price.”
His stare turns meaningfully to the leather pouch at my hip. Instinctively I curl my hand around it.
“What is your good price Madam?” he asks with a leer. I mentally shake myself. This guy is nothing but a con artist! I almost turn to leave but my eye is caught again by the gorgeous box.  I cannot resist it and, if nothing else, it will make for a good story when I get home.
I remove the pouch from my hip and dig down to the bottom past the precious talismans bestowed on me by E. Ahmed’s eyes do not leave the pouch for a moment. I pull out a single, small gold coin then tuck the pouch into a pocket safely inside my vest. I place the gold coin on top of the box and wait.
A thin smile plays across Ahmed’s lips and he begins to shake his head.
“Oh no, no, no Madam,” he remonstrates, “ You misunderstand. This box  is priceless and here you insult me with one tiny, gold coin…”
I retrieve the coin and begin to walk away briskly,
“Take it or leave it my friend,” I reply over my shoulder. I walk on refusing to look back.
Suddenly he is at my shoulder again, all charm and smiles,
“Oh Madam, forgive me please, my mistake. I apologise… it is so dark I could not see the coin properly… your price is right….”
He proffers me the box and his greedy hand swallows my gold coin.
Before I can leave he grabs my arm. I stare at his hand with thinly veiled disgust.
“Remember Madam,” he says menacingly, holding my arm tighter, “ Remember what you have been warned. Only open it alone. Let no one else hear the music.”
With this I wrench my arm free and turn from him, walking away as I tuck the box into my vest beside the pouch.
“Remember!” he calls out again. I turn around only to find the stall has disappeared and its lamps are gone. There is nothing but the quiet dark gleam of the  River Kerith.
I shiver and head quickly towards the comfort of the crowd within the lights and noise of the Night Market.

One Woman Show

The stage is dark…but for a woman’s voice: 

What can I show you that will tell you about me?
What can I share that will give you an understanding of who I am?

Lights up to reveal a shawled woman in a rocking chair…

Once upon a time there was a girl who loved to read and seek adventure within the pages of books.
As she grew older and her world grew more uncertain and unstable her books remained a constant for her; a comfort amidst all the change and upheaval that she could not control.  She discovered that, as well as her books, her imagination allowed her to create places that she wanted to go to and people that she wanted to be.
Her own life was fractured and difficult; punctuated by stress and grief. She found it a relief to disappear between the pages of a book or enter into her imaginary realm.
For years this was how she existed; hiding from real life within her own dreams.
Bit by bit, as she grew older, she learnt to leave her refuge and live within the real world. She learnt to deal with the instability and stress and, in time, control it. Soon she lived, loved and worked in this world competently and completely. So much so that her old sanctuary was left forgotten and untouched.
Until now.

As the woman speaks she stands and begins to pack a leather back-pack with clothes and other items:

Some buried part of her is stirring, dreaming of escaping the everyday world that she has grown accustomed to. It has awoken something within her, a craving for the unreal and a yearning for adventure. Everyday it grows stronger and stronger, more insistent, refusing to be ignored.
It is that part of her has embarked upon this journey. To rediscover her voice, once her only solace, now creaky and rusted from years of neglect.
Her journey is my journey.
To find a balance between imagination and reality; between facing life and running  away; between the real world and that known only to me.

The woman has packed and secured her bag and swung it onto her shoulder. She stands and faces the audience:

It is time to help her find her voice and find her way.
 It is time to open the doors to my forgotten world and play once more.

Lights slowly fade to dark as the woman strides purposefully offstage:

Once upon a time…..

Chefleur 6.1.08

Birds at Rainbow Beach

The seagull stands on the dock its beady eyes watching the movement and bustle of people on the barges and the pontoon. Next to him, atop a pole, a cormorant sits motionless, airing its wings in the warm sunshine.

“They’re not fisherman,” the seagull squawks suspiciously. The cormorant does not answer but turns his head from one side to the other and blinks.

“They’re not fisherman,” the seagull repeats, walking a few steps on its flat orange feet towards the barges, “There’s no bait.”

The people busy on the dock are loading bags and boxes onto the barges.

“No bait, not pots, no nets,” the seagull continues, “They’re definitely not fisherman.”

The cormorant blinks again and sits silently.

“What are they doing?” the seagull grumbles, “What’s the point of being on a boat if there are no fish? What am I supposed to eat?”

The seagull watches the people point and gasp as a large pelican gracefully glides from the sky and lands on the water beside the dock. It floats proudly towards the other birds.

“No point staying here Brother,” the seagull calls out, “There’s no fish.”

The cormorant sits statue still.

“There are no fish My Brother,” replies the pelican grandly, “Because they are not fisherman. They are travellers.”

“Travellers?” the seagull screeches indignantly, “Travellers? What do they do?”

The pelican replies calmly,

“They seek answers. They look for the truth.”

The cormorant blinks once, turns its head and is still once more.

“Truth? Answers?” the seagull repeats excitedly, “Are they fish?”

“No” replies the pelican, “But they are important to the travellers.”

“Rubbish!” says the seagull, “Nothing’s more important than fish!”

He looks again with his beady eyes at the people stacking the barges with evermore boxes and bags,

“How do you know all this?”

“Our Brother, the osprey, who flies from the sea to the mountains and back again, has seen all this and told me.”

“Brother Osprey?” snorts the seagull, “What does he know?”

The pelican gives the seagull an uncompromising chilly stare,

“Brother Osprey flies far and high and sees all. He knows more than you and I Brother Gull.”

The seagull is momentarily silenced and the pelican takes the opportunity to continue,

 ”Those boats are taking the travellers far up the river. They have mules that are walking with them many days from here to the Mountains of Myrr. Brother Osprey tells me the travellers stop there at the Sanctuary of Mnemosyne. There they seek answers and truth.”

“Mountains! What good are mountains? No fish in the mountains.” The seagull looks scornfully at the travellers, “How stupid to be travelling to the mountains away from fish!”

“Not everyone is interested in fish,” the pelican replies.

The seagull shakes his head in disgust,

“Well if there’s no fish I’m off.” With that he flies away screeching noisily to himself.

The pelican bids a polite farewell to the cormorant then, lifting his heavy bulk out of the water with his great wings, flies slowly away.

Apart from the noise from the barges and pontoon the dock is peaceful. The cormorant slowly stretches his wings then returns to his original static pose. He watches the movement further down the dock, blinks once, then speaks,

“That sunshine’s nice and warm.”

Chefleur 5.1.08

Into the Blue

She offers her hand
Once more I cannot refuse.
Her voice, like cool water,
Has the power to soothe.
She leads me onward and inward
Through the door, past my fears,
I take one certain step
And my past disappears…

Hold your breath,
Make a wish,
Count to three…..*

 

Chefleur 3.2.08

* Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newly, 1971, Pure Imagination

Her Reassurance

Traveller, traveller, do not despair,
The doorway you seek has always been there.
It stands neglected where your dreams grow wild,
Untamed, left behind, with your inner child.
Go there now, seek it out, do not fret.
It waits for you, open, you didn’t really forget.
Your muse and your spirit await you there too.
Just take that one certain step,
Step out into the blue.

Traveller’s Lament

One step, two steps; maybe more.
How many steps ‘til I find the door?
Will it be red, or green, or blue?
Will it be old or shiny and new?
How will I know, when will I see?
Will it be gently calling me?
Inside or outside, country or town?
Must I look up or keep my eyes down?
So many places I can spy
I’m so frightened I’ll pass it by.
One step, two steps; maybe more,
How many steps ‘til I reach the door?

Chefleur 3.1.08

The Legendary Lemurian Travelling Sideshow

Roll up!
Roll up!
Roll up!
Take your places please,
Ladies and Gentlemen,
Girls and Boys,
For the all singing,
All dancing,
Legendary Lemurian Travelling Sideshow!
There’ll be thrills!
There’ll be spills!
There’ll be laughter and tears!
Amusement and Amazement!
Poets, bards and artists
Ready to paint you a picture
Or tell you a tale!
Open your eyes, ears and hearts
Get ready to be
Tantalised! 
Energised!
Mesmerised!
So much to hear!
So much to see!
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!
Roll up!
Roll up!

She’s Gone

She’s Gone

“Mum’s gone.” Nan said one morning as I sat down at the table eating breakfast. I munched my toast absent-mindedly, idly scanning the morning paper,
“Yeah? She at the shops?” I mumbled.
“No Vin,” Nan sat down heavily beside me and folded up the newspaper, “she’s gone, left. I don’t think she’s coming back.”
I stopped chewing and look at the spot where the newspaper had been. I looked at Nan, who was sitting, silently, waiting for my reaction,
“I don’t understand,” I said slowly, “ Gone? Where?”
“I don’t know love, she didn’t say,” Nan said softly, taking my hand in hers.
“When did she go?” I asked, blinking incomprehensibly.
“Either yesterday evening or this morning after work. She didn’t come home.”
My mind raced.
“We should call the police. She might be missing or something might have happened to her,” I rose to get the phone. Nan gripped my hand more firmly and returned me to my seat,
“No Vin,” Nan said putting an envelope on the table between us, “She’s taken a couple of bags of clothes and all her paperwork. She left of her own accord.”
My fingers reached for the envelope and I numbly read her short note.

Dear Mum,
I know you will understand.
There’s nothing here for me now. Our girls are strong and grown up and it’s time for me to get on with my life.
I can’t face Vin with her questions and anger. I’m sorry. Maybe one day she’ll understand. Send her my love.
Thank you for everything Mum,
I love you
Sasha

I stared at her words and felt the old anger welling up and the tears choking me,
“Is sneaking out like a coward easier than facing her daughter and saying goodbye?” I whispered. My hand crumpled the letter and I gripped it tightly as tears poured down my cheeks.
“I thought Dad was gutless,” I hissed,” She’s no better than he is.”
“ Now Vin,” Nan chided gently, “You know your Mum. She’s keeps everything to herself. Maybe she’s just trying to protect us all.”
“No Nan!” I sobbed fiercely, “We’ve waited years for her to tell us the truth. I thought once Honey and Rose had moved out and with me being being older she’d be able to tell me something, anything. And now she’s gone and I’ll never find out and she couldn’t even say goodbye.”
Nan held me in her arms as I cried in anger and frustration. She made me call in sick at work and after I’d had a hot shower she tucked me in to bed with a Milo.
“Rest up love,” she kissed my head, “We’ll get through this. We need to be strong. One of us has to tell your sisters.”
I groaned and pulled the covers over my head. Explaining Mum’s disappearance to Honey and Rose wasn’t going to be easy. They wouldn’t be angry. They would just be worried and it would take all our effort to convince them to stay at home and not call up a national man hunt.
“Don’t think about it now,” Nan smiled, “Have a sleep if you can. I’ll bring you something later.”
I had a strange, frustrating sleep full of dreams where I would walk into rooms and catch glimpses of Mum leaving. No matter how fast I tried to run I couldn’t catch her. I woke up feeling drained. My mind was racing. Where would a forty year old woman go? Was she looking for Dad? Had he been in touch with her?
Before I could get carried away with my own self induced intrigue Nan opened the door. She put a cup of soup and some buttered bread next to my bed and walked out of the door,
“Just a mo Vin,” she said.
I sat up and devoured the food, I was starving. Nan returned with an armful of exercise books and placed them on my lap.
“You’re not the only writer in the family,” she said, “These are your Mum’s”
I stared at Nan.
“She wrote?” I said, “Diaries?”
“I know what you’re thinking Vinegar Jones,” Nana smiled at me wickedly and shook her head, “You’re not going to find any great secrets in here. Probably just more questions. These are your mother’s journals. She wrote her stories, dreams and aspirations in them, but saying that, be warned; it might not be what you expect. Like your stories I think a lot of them are based in truth, anger and desire. Try to understand that you not going to find your answers here; try not to jump to any conclusions.”
“Have you read them Nan?” I asked, gently stroking the covers of the books, feeling their age and softness, wondering at their secrets.
Nan smiled,
“No Vin, I’ve only read what your Mum shared with me, and that wasn’t much. She guarded them closely. I’m a little surprised she left them here.”
“Mum would kill you if she knew you had given them to me.” I grinned at her.
Nan looked at the books and sighed sadly,
“You’re not the only one angry that she left us with so many unanswered questions.”
I hugged Nan tightly,
“Thank you,” I whispered.