Monday, July 1

 I suppose there were times in the past when July 1st was an important day.  I would be frantic closing off the financial books for the previous year, tidying up all the loose ends and hoping that nothing untoward would be found by the auditors when the accounts were delivered to them.

Now, of course, it's just another day and the most important decision is whether to put out the sheets or not.  It's cold but it's not raining so probably a good idea.

Today's story is called Whistling, from 2021.

Even though I will publicly deny it, I do have some bad habits and one of them is that I whistle, constantly and in the wrong places.  And I admit that it’s a particularly unattractive and tuneless whistle.

 My Dad was a whistler and I think whistling was particularly prevalent in his generation and the one before.   In the post-war years, millions whistled while they worked: window-cleaners, builders, delivery boys and, of course, the seven dwarfs. Performers made a living by whistling; no Music Hall bill was complete without a whistler and Ronnie Ronalde, in the 1950s, was acclaimed as the best and most successful whistler in the world. He topped variety bills and every one of his records passed the old grey whistle test, as the Americans say. The first top-40 record I remember which featured whistling was Singing the Blues with Guy Mitchell.

 

Every cowboy performer worth his salt had whistling in his repertoire but there has been some publicity recently suggesting that whistling has become a casualty of modern life. The Sydney Morning Herald, for example, in 2016, bemoaned the fact that whistling is passe and blamed the proliferation of portable music players and even suggested that modern music is less whistleable.  I agree that it’s rare to hear whistling today.  Perhaps whistling has become regarded as what you do when you have nothing else to do and, in our more frantic, busy society it’s no longer acceptable to admit that you’re not busy.  Better minds than mine will have to study whether that is a valid assumption.

 

In fact, there’s a lot of psychology around the art of whistling and there are researchers making a living studying it.  To give it a touch of respectabilty, it’s classified as ‘momentary musical performing’ like singing in the shower or humming while you do the housework.  More men whistle than women and, I believe, older men whistle more than younger ones.  There’s a Scottish and Irish proverb that says: ‘A whistling woman and a crowing hen will always come to some bad end’ but I’m not sure that is the reason that women don’t whistle; it’s probably more to do with their better developed sense of what’s attractive.  However, there is, on Youtube, a video of the Laurelpark Ladies Whistling Choir, performing Bohemian Rhapsody.  Is nothing sacred?

 

There’s quite a bit of superstition about whistling.  It's said to be unlucky to whistle at night and that might have something to do with a belief in evil spirits stalking in the darkness or it might be a throwback from experiences in war when a careless whistle in the dark might give your position away. In Japanese and Chinese culture, people avoid disturbing the quiet of the night by whistling, believing that the disturbance will bring danger.   In Turkey, whistling at night is regarded as calling for the devil.

 

Sailors whistle to increase the wind and, in Russia it’s said that whistling indoors will bring on poverty.  They have a saying ‘whistle money away.’  In the UK, there is a superstition regarding the Seven Whistlers, who may be spirits or birds, and whose whistling foretells death or disaster.  In 1900, hundreds of mine workers stopped work because a strange whistling had been heard in one of the mines.  

 

Apart from the Laurelpark Ladies Whistling Choir, a whistling  enthusiast can winkle out quite a lot of interesting material on Youtube.  There is even a Sydney Conservatorium of Music Whistling Choir’s rendition of Monty Python’s ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’.

 

So, I’m in good company with my whistling habit.  Sadly, my repertoire is very limited and I tend to whistle the same tune whatever the situation I’m in.  My wife tells me I whistled ‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’ for years but, lately, I’m stuck on Abba’s: ‘Take a Chance on Me.’  

 

A British YouGov survey found that 47% of people found whistling irritating but I just put that down to misophonia or ‘selective sound sensitivity syndrome’.   And it might also be jealousy: 67% of people claim they can’t whistle at all.  But I celebrate, every day, that I can.

Sunday, June 30

 I've given myself a major task to be completed today: I'm going to tidy up my desk.  You can talk about the Labours of Hercules but dealing with the Nemean Lion or cleaning up the Augean Stables had nothing on my labour today. It's only a desk but, in many ways, it's the centre of my world on most days.

It's not a typical 6 x 3 ft rectangular office desk.  Instead it's 150cm wide, straight at the back and sides and free-form at the front.  Free-form means it's curved.  From the left front corner, it gently curves outwards, makes a left hand turn and a dramatic whoosh to the right-hand back.  I obtained it from Giant Steps after I had left, having bought it years before in one of those few times when we had a bit of spare money.  The staff hated it and, when I left, they shoved it in a shed, and they were delighted to give to me for nothing if I took it away.

The trouble is, I've got too much junk on it.  There's the desktop, of course, and an Apple laptop, a sort of standing file box, desk lamp, container with pencils, a small bowl with USB sticks, a couple of photographs, a few note books, a small fan ... it's depressing just looking at it.

I have a couple of things to do on the computer and then I'll start today's blog post.  Promise!

The story today is called In the Future, from 2022, and is self-explanatory.

IN THE FUTURE                                                                                                     

 

I’ve made some mistakes in the past, I’m not too proud to admit and, when something embarrassing happens or I do something I later regret, I always resolve that I will be more careful in the future: in the future, when everything is rosy, birds sing and the sun shines every day, my aches and pains miraculously disappear and I never get a day older.

 

Humans, generally, seem to believe that, no matter how dire things are at the moment, they can only get better.  It’s that optimism which allows us to take a boring, soul-destroying job in the expectation that it will turn into a future career.  When we are hardly out of school, we borrow unimaginable amounts of money to buy a house which we may never pay off and which may need to be replaced when our family grows a little more than we expected.  And the system works.  When I was 8 years old, my parents opened an account for me with the Commonwealth Bank and I paid in a shilling a week from my pocket money.  I resented it then, but that account helped me buy the suit I wore at my wedding.

 

Are humans the only animals which plan for the future?  I know that squirrels store away nuts, and some birds stash surplus food for later.  Archie, the dog that’s living with us at the moment, often hides away a biscuit but I suspect he can’t live with the knowledge that there is an uneaten biscuit nearby so he generally retrieves it after a few minutes and takes pleasure in eating it straight away.  However, are these just anecdotal instances and is there more to it?

 

I checked to see what researchers are doing in this field and found that many have found it to be a fruitful area for study.  Thomas Suddendorf and Michael C Corbalis, in a study called ‘The Evolution of Foresight’, suggest that, for us to propose that animals stash their food, meaningfully, knowing that there may be a future shortage, they must be able to display that they have ‘mechanisms allowing prediction of future situations’. The researchers call this ‘mental time travel’ but suggest ‘there is no convincing evidence’ that non-human animals genuinely display that ability.  Researchers take themselves so seriously.

 

Many of us will find this disappointing: that birds, beavers, our precocious pets and other animals are simply following their instincts and, in fact, probably have no sense or concept of the future, let alone being able to plan for it.

 

So, there’s a lot of weight on the shoulders of the human race: bearing the burden that we are the only species who have a concept of the future and can appreciate the importance of planning for it.  We’ve shown that we can save for a rainy day and, if the motivation is sufficient, we will deny ourselves benefits today for a larger benefit in the future.   Are we wise enough, as a race, to reserve something from our present to allow for a better future for all living things?  And, are we mature enough to make the sacrifices today that all living things are relying on to ensure their future?  Of course, I’m not asking the whole of the human race to share in this burden.  Most of the world’s population struggle to survive from day to day.  The burden of saving the planet and all the living things in it must fall on the so-called developed nations.  Are we up to the challenge?

 

It's not looking promising.  Scientists tell us it might already be too late; that the damages we have caused to the environment might be irreversible and the best we can hope for is to slow down the inevitable grinding to a halt of life as we know it.  Will we, in effect, decide to go out with a bang or with a whimper?

 

Harking back to my first paragraph: are we, as a race, ready to admit we have made mistakes in the past and resolve to do better in the future?  Can the leadership be found to lead us into a brighter future where everything is rosy, birds continue to sing and the sun shines every day?  If I thought that the future can be made more secure I might even stop complaining about my aches and pains.

Saturday, June 29

There are five units in our little cluster here in Burleigh Street., all of them similar to ours: 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom, garage, etc.  Perfect, I would have thought for retired couples who have the occasional visit from a family member.    Four of them, though, are occupied by only one person. Number 3, next to us, has a single man, very quiet, and number 5 is an older woman who moved there because her husband is in the local nursing home and she needs to be close.

Numbers 3 and 4 are occupied by young, single women and we heard this week that both are moving out to live with their respective boyfriends.  That's all good but, if that arrangement becomes more permanent, we are faced with the prospect of having new neighbours.  We wait with anticipation for the next development.

I've called today's story A Day In the Life ... just a bit of nonsense.  It's from 2020.

After my knee replacement I was heartily tired of doctors but I needed an ultrasound on my ankle so my GP sent me to an unfamiliar clinic in a part of town I didn’t know very well.  We had no trouble finding the clinic and, after I spoke to the receptionist, I sat down to wait my turn.  The reception area was a good-sized room with the most prominent feature being an enormous Old English Sheepdog, sprawled across a mattress pushed against one wall.  The creature was clearly having some sort of doggy-dream as it was twitching and its head kept slipping off the mattress onto the shoes of a waiting patient who had, for some reason, chosen to sit as close to the dog as possible.  He didn’t seem perturbed even as his shoes became wetter and wetter with saliva. 

While I was waiting, an elderly woman came in, and presented herself to the receptionist who checked her details.  When asked her date of birth, she proudly announced, “27^th of October, 1942,” turned around and looked at me and repeated as if to challenge me, “1942!”  Taken aback somewhat, I responded, “Well done! You’ve beaten me by several months.  I wasn’t born until early 1943.”

After she had sat down, the receptionist called out to her, “Have you ever lived in Carrins Avenue?”

“Oh, no,” said the woman, “but the last time I came here you had builders in and I had to go to a room down the back of the building.  I don’t think I could find my way back there now.  My address is 72b Penquite Road but, before that, I lived in Carrins Avenue.”

The receptionist just smiled.

A buzzer rang and I was shown into an adjoining room where the lights were dimmed.  A cheerful young woman was sitting in front of an impressive piece of equipment which I assumed would be used to scan my leg and ankle. The young woman smiled and said, “Hi, my name is Mandy.  Do you need a hand to take your trousers off?”  I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.

Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?

Friday, June 28

It's very cold this morning and Marilyn is waiting for her cleaning lady to arrive.  We're never sure who it will be but it will be one of three and Marilyn doesn't care which one; they're all pleasant and efficient.  I'm waiting for Jamie to pick me up to do some shopping.  He'll have Brendan with him and it's all part of the program to acclimatise Brendan to living in Tasmania.  He's finding that it's not at all like life in the Philippines.  He's learnt to catch the bus and deal with the fare collection system.  In Balatan, he might use a jeepney and the system there is for the passengers to pass the few coins up to the driver, hand over hand.  Brendan had to learn about bus stops and looking for the number of the bus and being polite to old ladies and so on.  But, he's getting there.  Today, it's about shopping and, for us, a good excuse to go to Officeworks and Bunings.

Today's story is one of my early ones from 2010; not great but all part of the process.

 Walter, somehow, had never got around to having girlfriends.  Now in his forties, he had resigned himself to life as a sad bachelor so, when Anita from his office started to seek him out to sit with him during coffee breaks he was a bit nonplussed. Did she really bat her eyelids at him?  He’d read about that but didn’t believe it was a real thing.  After a while, Anita seemed to think he had proposed to her, and maybe he had, but there was a sense that he was being rail-roaded.  If he were honest, though, Walter would have admitted he was flattered by the attention and all of a sudden it was too late to think again. But he quite liked the idea of another presence in his life.

Even Walter had to admit it was a great wedding.  The bride wore white, which Walter thought was a bit over the top, and had her heart set on a honeymoon at Katoomba where the last three generations of her family had enjoyed the first days of their nuptial bliss.  They had probably stayed at the wonderful and fashionable Hydro Majestic Hotel but Walter had to draw a line somewhere and, instead, booked a few nights at the Three Sisters Motel.

There’s a lot of fuss made about Katoomba but, when all is said and done, it’s now just an outlying suburb of Sydney.  Once you’ve seen the Three Sisters and travelled on the Scenic Railway, the only other worthwhile experience is the social life at the RSL Club.  After a couple of days of walking up and down the main street and drinking coffee in the Paragon Café, Walter was looking for a way to escape.  Luckily, a poster in the window of the café caught his eye.  It was an advertisement for an Air Show in Temora which, in Walter’s view of the world, was just up the road.

“You’ll love it,” he enthused to Anita. “I heard somebody talking about it recently and she raved about it.  So, it’s not just for men.  If we leave now, we can stop overnight somewhere and be in Temora before you know it.”

By nightfall, they had reached Bathurst and booked in to an old Victorian house with a sign saying ‘The Lost Chinaman Guest House’.  “What’s the story about the Lost Chinaman,” Walter asked the young man behind the desk.  “Dunno,” was the reply “But there were lots of Chinese miners here during the Gold Rush and some of them might have got lost, not being locals.”

The room was quite comfortable, if a bit old-fashioned.  Anita was all for having an early night; she was on her honeymoon, after all.  They slept soundly but Anita woke with a start, saying, “There seems to be draught.  I’m cold.”  Walter felt the chill too but found a cardigan for Anita and they tried to get back to sleep.  Walter couldn’t understand why Anita hadn’t brought nightwear more suitable for the weather.  He imagined he could hear his mother’s disapproving voice:  “That nightie is a disgrace; it doesn’t even cover her bum.”  Following his Dad’s advice, Walter always wore flannelette after Easter and didn’t take out his cotton pyjamas until September 1^st.

It seemed to be just a few minutes later that Anita woke again.  “Did you hear a noise?  It sounded like a moan.”  “I didn’t hear anything,” answered Walter, wishing that Anita would stop making such a fuss.  They had a long drive in the morning and he knew he was no good if he hadn’t had his regular eight hours.

His wish was to no avail.  The ghostly presence, or whatever it was, seemed to run through its whole repertoire: apart from the cold chills and disembodied moans, Walter and Anita were treated to the clanking of chains, distant shrieking, clammy breath on their necks and the sound of children sobbing.  The most interesting noise, though, was what sounded like Chinese bells.

By the morning, Anita was a nervous wreck and she insisted that Walter pay the bill quickly so they could get away.  Walter mentioned to the surly receptionist that they’d had a disturbed night but the young man didn’t seem at all perturbed, not even offering a discount.

Anita and Walter never got to Temora.  Walter would have driven on but Anita said she was too upset and insisted they head for home.  In any case, she had some renovation ideas she wanted to explore for the apartment where Walter had lived, contentedly alone, for twenty years: she’d start by replacing some of Walter’s old-fashioned furniture and brighten the place up a bit with some modern touches.  She idly wondered how she could incorporate Chinese bells into the decor.

Thursday, June 27

 Sometimes you don't need television to be entertained in Tasmania.  Back in May we had a spectacular Aurora which was highlighted in all the papers.  Marilyn and I missed it, of course, because we went to bed early but, thankfully, all the local night owls were out with their cameras and the local Facebook page was a riot of colour the next morning.  Yesterday, we had a hailstorm; the hailstones weren't very big and when they gathered on the ground they looked like snow.  Most of them melted very quickly but, in the shadow of the fences, they lay there for hours just like snowdrifts.  I wonder what will be next.

Todays story is very recent and I've called it A Dark Family Secret.

Mum showed me an album of old photographs once and told me my father had brought them with him on his voyage to Australia.  He had never even told my brother and me that he had come by ship; I just assumed he had flown here.  In the back of the album was a bundle of photographs in a faded Kodak folder.  They were shots taken in the various ports he had visited on the voyage: Aden, Port Said, Colombo, Perth and so on. There were so many stories he could have told us and I had never heard them. Of course, I felt guilty about that.

 

The research was straightforward, at first.  Looking back through the UK census I found a mention of him.  At that time, his family was living in Glasgow and, listed in the household were his parents, his brother and two sisters, and another person named James Kirby.  I had heard that name casually mentioned a few times over the years but I wasn’t sure of the relationship and, of course, I hadn’t had the good manners to ask about him.

 

My interest was aroused now so I determined to look further.  In an earlier census, my grandmother was there, noted as married but my father and his siblings had not yet been born.  James Kirby was there, though, listed as ‘son’.  Who was this person?

 

I found the answer in an even earlier census in a listing of a family named Howard, with an address in one of the more well-to-do suburbs.  Among the list of those present in the house on the census date was Elizabeth McNair, housemaid and James Kirby, child.  Elizabeth McNair was my grandmother.  I hadn’t realised that she had worked as a servant but I could now start to understand how the details fitted together.

 

My grandmother, in service, had become pregnant, probably by another of the staff and her employers, instead of throwing her out on the street, had allowed her to remain in the house while she was carrying the child.  At some point after the child was born, she had married my grandfather and he had agreed to bring up the child as his own.  That child was James Kirby.  His name hadn’t been changed  to my family’s name, for some reason.

 

Some twist of fate had brought my father to Australia where he had met my mother, married and, in due course, my brother and I were born. His life in Australia had been positive.  He had been proud of his family, fulfilled by his occupation, and content with his circle of good friendships.

 

Now, I was in possession of new information about his beginnings and his early life, and I wondered what I should do with that information.  Would it honour his memory if I announced to the world that his mother had been a housemaid to a wealthy family, that she had become pregnant without being married and had an illegitimate child?  

 

In today’s society, those revelations would hardly raise an eyebrow but, on balance, I decided that it was information I didn’t need to share.  I couldn’t believe that I heard myself thinking, ‘Best to let sleeping dogs lie.’

 

 

Wednesday, June 26

 WEDNESDAY, 26 JUNE

Our life has taken an interesting turn this week as we have started Meals on Wheels.  We’ve talked about it for a while and I was keen because I worry about Marilyn having to slave in the kitchen.  We’ve tried various frozen meals but they’re often too big and wasteful.  I try to do my share of food preparation  but Marilyn sees it as ‘her job’ and that’s all there is to it.  She’s been doing it for over 60 years now and that’s long enough.

We’ve only ordered one meal each a day for five days, with no desserts, and will look after ourselves the rest of the time.  They are delivered fresh each week day.  So far, we’ve been very happy and, because they come in a tray, we don’t even have to wash up. All good, so far.

Today’s story comes from 2020 and is a flight of fantasy about what might happen if the British Royal Family were ousted and had to make a living as private citizens.

MRS WINDSOR’S CHILDREN                            

 

Living in a modest three-bedroom house in Rocherlea might seem like a world of difference from the very comfortable (some might say privileged) existence they had enjoyed in England but Kathy and Bill didn’t see it like that.  The fiasco of Brexit had not delivered what PM BoJo had promised, the shambles of their Coronavirus response and the withdrawal of Scotland and Wales from the Union hadn’t helped and, when Bill’s grandmother had died (of a broken heart, perhaps) and his father had taken over the family business, all the resentments of a disillusioned population had spilled over into riots in the streets.  Everyone said performances like that were disgraceful and to be expected in places like Hong Kong, perhaps, but never in civilised England.

Bill’s brother and his wife had already settled in California and, by all accounts, were living life to the full, but Kathy and Bill wanted something different – to be normal for a change.  Moving to Tasmania seemed a good start.  Adopting other versions of their names also seemed like a good idea – another break from the past. His old name, Will, smacked too much of Eton and Kate sounded too much like the sort of person who played Netball on Saturday afternoon and got drunk with her mates after the match.  Kathy and Bill, on the other hand, sounded like the middle-aged couple you might meet playing bowls. 

 

Bill couldn’t do much about his receding hairline but he did manage to grow a pretty decent moustache, even though Kathy said that it reminded her of Frank Zappa, whoever he was.  Kathy was quite happy with her life, working three mornings a week at Woolies, and looking after their kids who were at the local high school, and Bill had a job selling cars.  He had first been offered a job with Holden but that didn’t last long so someone put in a good word with Errol Stewart and a job was found for him at the Ford dealership in Launceston.  It was probably that nice Mr Morrison who arranged it.  

 

When Kathy and Bill had first come to Australia, their visas were signed personally by a Mr Dutton.  Mr Dutton and Mr Morrison had met them at the airport with welcome gifts and offers of directorships and so on.  Kathy and Bill hadn’t realised that Australia was so welcoming to refugees.  All those reports in the Guardian about turning back the boats and locking people up in concentration camps must have been fake news as Mr Morrison had said. 

 

The local people they had met in Rocherlea all seemed nice.  Australians didn’t seem to have the habit of tugging forelocks and bowing like people in England, and they seemed to swear a lot.  When Bill had sold his first car, the manager had said, ‘You’re a bloody beauty!’  Bill didn’t know whether that was a compliment or not but when the boss bought him a beer later, he assumed it was a good thing.

 

Yes, life might be alright in Tassie.  Well, the kids were picking up some bad habits, like chewing gum, and Kathy had taken up smoking but these were probably just teething problems.  As the Australians often said, “She’ll be right.’

Tuesday, June 25

 Jamie has just arrived to take Marilyn to an appointment.  He has our car at the moment as his is at a workshop getting a major repair done - something to do with the radiator.  Not every mechanic will take on the job and the workshop he found says it might be 2 or 3 weeks before they  get around to it.  So, he has borrowed mine, the price being that he makes sure we can be transported to our appointments.

I've dug today's story out of the archive.  It goes back to 2020 and is a nostalgic look at Sydney as I remember it in the 1950s and 60s.

THE LIFT ATTENDANT                                                                                           

On the wall of her apartment, Rose had a framed poster showing the magnificent Anthony Hordern’s Building in Brickfield Hill in Sydney.  This was where Rose had begun work as a shy 16-year old many years before.  She had only worked there for a few years before marriage and her husband’s career took her overseas, but those few years had left her with very happy memories and a sense of satisfaction and achievement. 

Rose’s husband worked in the Diplomatic Service so they spent a lot of time overseas, mainly in smaller countries in South America and Africa.  They had never been offered a plum posting to somewhere like Washington or London; these were reserved for favourites of the Government of the day or, more often, as consolation prizes for leadership contenders who were becoming too dangerous, or failed cabinet ministers who had to be shuffled out of sight.

There had been dangers, of course, in some of the out-of-the-way places but excitement and satisfaction as well.  Her husband’s generous salary and retirement benefits had also made it possible for Rose to enjoy this spacious apartment with views of Sydney Harbour.  Sadly, her husband was gone now, a victim of a fever picked up in years past.  Their only daughter, Sylvia was married to an international businessman and was living full-time overseas.  Sylvia rarely visited but phoned regularly and Rose was now getting the hang of Skype.

On most days, Rose was up early.  She dressed carefully, always with hat and gloves, and caught the train to St James Station to spend part of the day at David Jones department store.  Of course, it wasn’t up to the standard of Anthony Horderns but at least it had tried to maintain something of the classic setup that Rose had grown up with.  She always had tea and a scone in the small café and made a point of travelling from floor to floor in the wood-panelled lifts.  She had visited the monstrous Myer Store once (although it had been called Grace Bros in her day) but she couldn’t tolerate the immense escalator which dominated the centre of the store.  The escalator was always so busy she thought that some people travelled up and down all day, never getting off to browse the departments.

Wandering around David Jones, on the other hand somehow reminded her of her younger days.  Growing up in the suburbs, Rose had always enjoyed the trips with her mother to Anthony Horderns.  On these visits, she always wanted to spend some time on the Sixth Floor where she gazed in awe at the impossibly glamorous ladies who shopped there.  They were matched only by the immaculate shop assistants in their crisp black dresses, with their heeled shoes and refined voices.  Rose was too young to realise that the adopted accents were laughed at by the socialites of the North Shore and Eastern Suburbs.  To become one of these ladies in black became Rose’s burning ambition.

She was sad when Anthony Horderns closed down and especially when the landmark building was demolished to make way for another modern eyesore.  It would have made a wonderful apartment block and Rose would have loved to have lived there.  Now she only had her memories, and the poster on the wall, to remind her of a special milestone in her life.

One day, there had been a whisper around the floor that management was looking for a new Lift Attendant. Like most other big stores, Anthony Horderns had, until that time, employed ex-soldiers for these jobs, giving them a uniform and a stool to sit on if they needed to rest their legs.  Now, it was said, a new young director wanted to change the image of the store and employ someone younger.  Of course, the invitation to apply was only extended to the young men on the staff.  It had never occurred to anyone in authority that it might be a suitable job for a woman.

When Rose applied, many eyebrows were raised, but the young director recalled a trip he had made to Japan and how he had been impressed with the attractive, friendly, female lift attendants there.  They even bowed when people entered the lift, though he thought that might be too much to ask in Australia.  Rose was appointed to the role: the first female Lift Attendant employed by Anthony Horderns, and probably the first in Sydney.

Rose often thought there were three parts to her life: she was Mrs Avery, wife of His Excellency, the Australian Ambassador, she was Sylvia’s mother, but she was also Anthony Horderns’ first female Lift Attendant.  It was not a bad score-line.

 

Monday, June 24

 I wrote this story back in 2021 and called it Song of Ireland.  Later, I changed it to Steal Away, although I prefer the first.   It's still one of my favourites.  My grandfather's name was Alexander Donachie and he had a brother called Owen.  The Donachie family came from the Longford region of Ireland but, despite all that, the story is totally fictitious.

STEAL AWAY

Owen Donachy had never felt the pressure of being Head of his family as much as he was feeling it at the moment.  As itinerant farm workers, he and his brothers followed a familiar pattern as they moved from one part of Ireland to another.  Changes in their regular routine were rare and usually agreed to by consensus.  Tonight, however, he had called his brothers together to discuss a much more difficult decision altogether.  Owen Donachy was informing his brothers that, before they all left in the morning to travel to their next destination, he planned to kill a man.

The man in question was a priest, known as Father Patrick.  He was, in fact, the third son of a local landowner who had proved to be a disappointment to his family.  Returning from school in England, he had shown no aptitude to take his place helping to run the family estates.  The army had made it clear that there was no place for the boy as an officer so, in desperation, his father agreed that he would be ‘given’ to the church.  A generous donation to the local parish, and an even more generous endowment to the Bishop saw Patrick welcomed into the priesthood.  There were enough eager and enthusiastic priests among the local clergy to cover for Patrick’s laziness and lack of interest and he may have continued his indolent and useless life but for one severe failing: he began to take an interest in the young daughters of the local farmworkers.

 Owen Donachy told his brothers that evening that Father Patrick had turned his attention to Owen’s own daughter who was just 14 years of age.  Owen’s wife had wrung her hands and gasped at the thought of what would happen oif the child became pregnant: she would be ostracised by the community and accused of using her feminine wiles to tempt a holy man, and no blame would be levelled at the priest.  Worse, when she began to show her symptoms, she would be gathered up by the Magdalene Sisters and put to work in one of their notorious laundries.  Eventually, her child would be put up for adoption in Belfast or Cork.

 It's no small thing to kill a man, but Owen was arguing that this was the just solution to an on-going problem.  The Donachy family could move on, removing their child from the situation, but the problem of the priest would remain for the unwitting families who would follow.  What kind of man would he be if he left the predator to prey on other young women?

 

Thomas, the most conservative of the brothers summed up their reluctance. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”  In a flash of insight, Owen replied, “But who is to say who the Lord might choose to be the instrument of his vengeance?”

 

It wasn’t much of an argument but it convinced the two younger brothers to side with Owen, leaving Thomas no option but to give his agreement.  Owen was relieved that he now had the full support of his brothers.

 

Owen knew that the girl had been instructed by the priest to meet him in a particular part of the forest just as the moon was rising that night.  The brothers arrived at the spot early and found appropriate hiding places.  When the priest arrived, he was annoyed to find that the girl was nowhere to be seen as he had been looking forward to a quick fumble, a satisfaction of his lust and a quiet stroll home in the moonlight.  Instead, he was shocked to see a bulky figure rising up before him.  He sensed another presence behind him, and one on his right and on his left.  A blow was struck, and another.  The priest was probably dead after the first blow but the brothers’ agreement called for four blows, one from each of them.  Efficiently, the body was buried underneath a fallen tree.  These men were agricultural workers, adept at moving wet earth around and soon there was no sign of anything amiss.

 

Hurrying home, the brothers gathered up their families and set off along the road to the coast.  It was close to midnight but the roads were already busy.  It was the time of year when itinerant workers would make the regular trip across the Irish Sea to Scotland where they would take part in the annual potato harvest there.

 

There were dozens of small boats on the beach, ready to set sail at dawn for the short voyage.  The Donachy family were among the first to leave and soon arrived in Scotland, heading south to the town of Mauchline where Owen knew a farmer who would give them work.  The family never returned to Ireland, choosing to make their home in this new country.

 

Because of the secrecy surrounding it, this story might never have been told but for a strange coincidence.  Many years later, a curious child from a different generation came across a sealed envelope between the pages of an old book.  Across the envelope was written: ‘Not to be opened until after my death.’  In the envelope was the detailed account of the incident and it was unsigned.  These words, if they had been known at the time would have led to the deaths of the four brothers.  It was right that it be kept secret.  But one member of the family could not bear that the truth be stifled and we should be grateful for his or her determination to value honesty.

Sunday, June 23

 It's cold again this morning so we were late getting out of bed; however, the lounge room has warmed up, we've finished breakfast and are ready to face the day.  Not that there is much organised.  Life is very quiet at the moment.  

We're expecting Jamie to pop in this afternoon.  Nera's nephew, Brendan, has just arrived from the Philippines and is staying with them.  He's 18 and enrolled to study here.  His plan is to qualify in Nursing to start with but transfer to Medicine later.  Working part-time as a nurse will help pay for his study to become a doctor.  He's very bright and he's lucky to have family here who will support him.

Today's story is my response to the topic Against All Odds:

It was Geordie’s ambition to visit every continent on earth before he was too old to travel.  Easy, you might say; there are only seven of them, there are excellent air services connecting them and only one of them could conceivably pose a problem. That, of course, is Antarctica.  However, nowadays, there are cruise ships which will take you there in comfort and make sure you have a choice of a dozen wines to enjoy with your cordon bleu dining experience after you have spent a day on the ice.  So, you were right, it will be easy.

 

Being an organised sort of person, Geordie knew that the best results from any project would always be achieved through careful planning, so he sat at his computer, pulled up a Word document and typed SEVEN CONTINENTS ADVENTURE in capital letters at the top of a new page.  He thought for a moment and decided he would not underline it; rather, he would make it BOLD so that it would stand out and follow it with a double return.

 

A planning document has to achieve several purposes.  First it needs an open, readable format so that you can see at a glance what is the daily objective.  Second, it should ensure that all possibilities have been considered and the anticipated activities are the best possible under the circumstances.  Thirdly, it should be structured to take advantage of any particular opportunities which might come up from time to time, and there must be enough flexibility to accommodate last-minute changes. Finally, it should never lose sight of the primary objective: that Geordie will achieve something that he will re-live for many years into the future.

 

Geordie started by typing a list of the seven continents, in no particular order but just as they occurred to him.  Later, he thought, I will re-order them in alphabetical order, perhaps.  Or perhaps not!  Maybe, I should start with the easy one: Australia, or is it Australasia, or is it now designated Oceania?  Clearly, some investigation is needed.  Eventually, he had a list of the seven continents with Antarctica filling the last place.

 

The next few months were memorable for Geordie.  Each evening, when he arrived home from work, he would turn to his computer, open his planning file and work on fleshing out his dream for what he would do on his great adventure.  He found Youtube invaluable in checking out what tiny villages in Croatia might be worth visiting, whether he should stay in a Japanese ryokan or whether a nearby international hotel might suit him better., and whether visiting the pyramids in Egypt was enough to say that he had ‘done’ Africa.  Gradually, the pages of his planning document began to take shape.  It was difficult.  Geordie found himself wanting to focus on planning the details of just one continent at a time when, he knew, that he needed to give equal attention to the other six or he would never achieve a suitable itinerary.  He had already decided his plan would be to visit the seven continents, one after the other without returning to Australia between each one.  A tentative plan seemed to be taking shape:  Australia to Africa, to Europe, to Asia, to North America to South America and to Antarctica.  

 

It would be expensive but, luckily, financing this trip would not be an issue.  His family had been wealthy and had left him comfortably well-off when they passed away.  He had a well-paid job, had never had a steady girl-friend and he lived very well, but without excessive expenditure. 

 

Any young man might have thought himself very fortunate indeed that he had the opportunity and the resources to set out on such an extraordinary adventure.  However, any other young man might have taken extra delight in sharing the adventure with another human being and Geordie did not even have the pleasure of talking about his plans, or discussing possibilities with anyone else.  Occasionally, he leaned back in his desk chair, took his eyes from the computer screen and wondered.  Is this all worth it?  

 

As he became more involved in the planning, Geordie loaded his itinerary on to an iPad so that he could work on it during his breaks at work.  Over time, he became aware that a particular young woman who worked in an adjacent office was showing an interest in the brochures he often had lying around.  If Geordie had any awareness of human relationships and how they develop, he might have felt a sense of anticipation when she asked what he was doing.  However, he didn’t and it was against all the odds that a few months later, Geordie and his new fiancée waited at the airport for their flight to Johannesburg.  He was to find, to his delight, that a special adventure is even more special when it is shared.

 

 

Saturday, June 22 ...

  When I opened the blog this morning, I had to think carefully about what I was doing.  You'd think that it would be second nature as I've been writing it since 2010, but I've been very slack for months now and my muscle memory is not what it used to be.  Must do better!

Yesterday was the last day of the School for Seniors' Writing Group and I have decided that I won't be going back next term.  I've been going for five years and it's been great to have an avenue for sharing my stories.  The group has been very positive, the fellow in charge is terrific at suggesting new ideas and has introduced us to 'Flash Fiction' which suits me very well.  However, several oldies have stopped coming, a couple off newbies have joined this term and the balance has altered. The expectations are that our stories will be no more than 800 words, or a page and a bit, have a beginning, a middle and a twist at the end.  All good, and I have no trouble fitting in to that outline.  But not everyone is so accommodating.  One woman apologises every week that she couldn't limit her story to 800 words and routinely, churns out about 1200 words of uninteresting prose.  Another doesn't write any more and entertains us with bits she wrote in her journal 25 years ago!  One bloke is writing a history of his family and regales us with anecdotes about some ancestor who played football for Subiaco after the war (World War 2, I think).  It's all too much.  I'm not a whinger, but...

So, I'll have to find another avenue for my writing.  And that's where the blog comes in.  I intend to write something ever day.  It might be just an anecdote about what we've been doing, or a bit of a story I'm playing with, but I intend to stick at it.

To start, I'll include the exercise we had at the group session yesterday.  We were given three words and had to make them into a story.  The words were: SUNSHINE ,, TAPIOCA .. REVELRY

 

Growing up in Australia in the 1950s was a wonderful experience.  Oh, I realise I am looking at those times through rose-tinted glasses but what I remember is a time of sunshine every day, of carefree afternoons and evenings with no TV when revelry was the norm.  I forget of course things like Mum serving tapioca pudding for afters when my brother and I were hoping for ice cream.  You don ‘t see tapioca pudding any more; some famous chef  like Jamie Oliiver has probably renamed it Four Spices Fondant or something which will better entice the taste-buds.  But tapioca never done us any harm.  I like to think that Australia is what it is today because of things like tapioca pudding, and Arnotts ginger snaps, and vegemite, and bread you had to slice yourself, and homemade soup using a bone you got from the butcher, and ….