18.11.01

Chapter number – The Devil and Miss Jones

Norelle was sitting in the corner of the café at a small table, watching people go past and waiting. There was a couple at the next table, arguing; Norelle always thought that arguing in public was a sign of weakness. The woman stood up, all tears and cosmetics, ready to walk out, calling the man’s bluff. It worked and the woman sat back down, mollified for the moment – the man might as well have gone down on one knee and proposed there and then. But that was a whole other sign of weakness.
‘Hello,’ said a voice in her ear.
Norelle looked to her right, to see nobody, and then to her left – again nobody. She leant back in her chair, and arched her head straight backwards. It was Gordon, upside down. ‘Hello,’ said Norelle, archly.
‘Mind if I join you, then?’ asked Gordon, sitting down, uninvited.
‘Be my guest. What’s that you’re reading?’
‘Oh, my deep dark secret. I tend to read a lot of stuff about the occult.’
‘I see,’ said Norelle, smiling. ‘Well, hand it over then.’
A waitress appeared at the side of their table. ‘Same again please,’ murmured Norelle, biting on a thumbnail as she read the back cover of the book.
‘Long black, thanks,’ said Gordon, holding the gaze of the waitress. Gordon smiled, and the waitress looked away, discomfited slightly. Gordon, though not overly attractive, had a type of charm that could either make a woman feel uncomfortable or glamorous. Sometimes both. And it tended to depend on the woman, as to the response that Gordon would get. ‘And in case you didn’t hear that,’ Gordon smiled at the waitress again, and then threw a consternated look at Norelle who was still reading, ‘my companion here will have the same again. Which by the look of it, was also a long black.’
The waitress nodded and walked away to the counter.
‘So,’ said Gordon, leaning forward, ‘Good read is it?’
Norelle laughed and put the book down, shaking her head. ‘Sorry. Bit of a voracious reader, I’m afraid. I used to be the bookworm in school.’ She rubbed the back of her neck with the palm of her hand.
‘And now look at you, transformed into the beautiful butterfly,’ said Gordon, smiling.
Norelle raised an eyebrow. ‘Why thank you, I’m sure,’ she purred in a mock southern accent, and laughed. ‘So what brings you here? For this place, it can’t be the coffee, eh?’
‘I’ve been drinking your mother’s tea all this week, let’s just say I needed a change, shall we?’ Gordon looked up to see their waitress, no, his waitress, walking over with two white cups balanced precariously on tiny saucers in her hands.
The couple at the next table were arguing again. This was no split due to musical differences; due, more likely, by the sound of it, to a torrid affair with a colleague at work. The woman, mascara running dark rivulets down her cheeks, stood up from her chair and stormed out. The man, ridden with either embarrassment or guilt, stood up to go after her, the futility of his actions in his eyes. He backed into the waitress, and the two cups flew everywhere.
Norelle looked up, having escaped unscathed from the both the cups and their scalding contents, not knowing who to feel most for.
Gordon broke the sudden silence that ensued.
‘Are you sure you wanted that extra caffeine pumping through your system?’
‘Not entirely,’ said Norelle, looking at the mess, and the poor waitress, standing with two empty saucers in her hands, which were hanging limply by her sides.
The man started to apologise profusely to the waitress, and as he crouched down on the floor to help her pick up the pieces of the shattered cups, Norelle and Gordon stood up, and walked towards the door. Norelle left some money on the table as she left, which Gordon picked up and pocketed on his way past.
In bright sunlight, they walked down the street, passing the ex girlfriend who was still waiting for the man to come rushing after her.
‘He’s talking to the waitress,’ Gordon called out helpfully as they walked past. The woman, still teary, burst vehemently into tears again and kicked the wall with her stilettoed foot.
Norelle did a double take at Gordon. ‘Easy, there!’ she exclaimed, unsure as to whether Gordon’s comment had been irredeemably cruel, or excruciatingly funny.
‘So where to now, then?’ grinned Gordon, shrugging at her astonishment. He looked down at her.
‘Hmm, want to come back to mine? It’s about ten minutes from here. And I promise not to throw coffee over you.’
They walked on down the street in silence, both knowing what this would lead to, albeit one more than the other.

Norelle’s house was neither particularly cosy nor particularly large. The psychiatrist in Norelle favoured cool, clean, clinical surfaces, a minimalist. Norelle led Gordon through the hall into the living room, and he took a seat on a pristine chocolate brown couch, with chrome legs and a sheepskin thrown over the back in a vague effort to humanise it.
‘Ah-ah,’ said Norelle, as if addressing a small child or a cute but disobedient pet.
Gordon looked up, unable, like a cute but disobedient pet, to work out what he had done wrong.
Norelle shook her head, and beckoned to him to follow her, as she went into another room. Gordon stood up meekly and followed her into the next room. The walls were painted a deep crimson hue, and there was a huge bed against the opposite wall.
‘Strip.’ Gordon looked at Norelle expectantly. ‘Strip!’ she said again, frowning at him.
Gordon looked at Norelle again, who by now was sitting in the middle of the bed, leaning against the headboard, arms outstretched and resting on the back of the bed. Interesting, he thought, raising an eyebrow at her.
‘How dare you look at me like that!’ cried Norelle in quite possibly the sternest tone that Gordon had ever heard addressed to him.
Gordon slowly undid the buttons of his black shirt. He could feel his hands tremble slightly. In anticipation? He wasn’t even sure any more. This was not something that happened every day, to say the least. He looked up at her again. She was sitting with her legs stretching towards the bottom of the bed, one knee bent slightly, and he took a deep breath.
‘And the rest!’ ordered Norelle, sharply. Gordon took off his shoes and socks, and undid his trousers. Holding them up still, he looked over to Norelle, who raised a stern eyebrow expectantly.
Gordon, stripped naked now, began to feel very vulnerable, although rather more in a delicious than a bad way.
Norelle, still completely clothed, slid off the bed. She looked at Gordon, whose emotions were ranging from ‘Hey, this is great!’ to feeling somewhat small and pathetic. Both feelings were somewhat novel to him, as he was used to both the ennui of centuries and generally being the most superior being in any given place.
Norelle walked slowly around Gordon, looking him up and down as she did so. ‘Get on the bed,’ she snarled, and Gordon did as he was told. Norelle marched round to the far side of the bed, and grabbed Gordon’s right wrist. There was a clunk of metal, and Gordon looked over to see that his right hand was shackled to the corner of the bedpost by a pair of handcuffs he hadn’t noticed there before. Lying on the bed, he tried to sit up a bit more, but Norelle pounced onto the bed and put a bare foot on his chest. ‘No,’ she said sternly, shaking her head slightly, her eyes glinting like two cursed diamonds. She took her foot off Gordon’s chest, and placed it gently against Gordon’s jaw. She moved it slightly, forcing Gordon to turn his head from side to side. She giggled, and, stepping over him, jumped lightly off the other side of the bed. Firmly grabbing his left wrist, she wrenched his hand towards the corner of the bed, and again Gordon heard the clink of metal cuffs against the bedpost, and felt the cold steel encircle his left wrist.
He lay prone as Norelle walked to the bottom of the bed, watching his face all the while. She reached below the bed and picked up some rope. Gripping his left ankle, she tied first his left foot, then his right foot to the opposite corners. Gordon had no choice but to lie there, and as it happened, he couldn’t think of anywhere else in the world he’d rather be.
Meanwhile, Norelle hadn’t taken her eyes off him, watching him like prey, she circled the bed, slowly unbuttoning her shirt.
‘You’ve been a very naughty boy, haven’t you,’ said Norelle, breathlessly.
Gordon looked up, watching Norelle as she prowled over to a large candlestick in the corner of the room, lighting several candles. He tried to shrug, but the motion was lost in his tethers. She smirked at him. Norelle reached over to the wardrobe and picked up the corner of a chiffon scarf that was draped from the corner of the wardrobe door. Deep red, the sheer fabric trailed from where it hung, as Norelle languidly walked across the room, not even looking at it. Her arm outstretched over the bed, and she dropped the scarf on Gordon as he lay there naked. He shivered as the chiffon fell like a whisper on his skin. Norelle turned away from the bed, and Gordon breathed in sharply as her skirt fell to the floor. She turned around.
Walking towards the bed, she picked up the chiffon scarf, trailing it over his skin, as she walked up to the top of the bed. He gasped as she draped it over his face, and then she took one end, and, grabbing a handful of hair, she roughly pulled his head up from the pillow, and wrapped the scarf around his head, over his eyes. She tied it forcefully and tightly at the back of his head.
Gordon uselessly turned his head to look at Norelle, able only to make out vague shadows against the candlelight through the haze of the blood red chiffon. He could see the shadow that was Norelle but other than that, he was blind, and unable to move. The sensation of chiffon was once again upon his skin, lingering over his body, up his thigh, over his stomach, brushing his chest; he felt his nipple harden. Norelle grabbed his hair again; Gordon gasped, and Norelle tied the chiffon, gagging him. Too tight to be comfortable, too erotic to be painful. He felt her hot breath against his neck and shivered. ‘You’re mine,’ she whispered. ‘You can’t move, you can’t speak, you can’t cry out, you can’t see. You’re mine.’
Gordon could feel the warmth of her presence receding, and he could hear her soft footfalls in the corner of the room now. The next thing he knew was that she had something in her hand, and was draping it down his torso. This wasn’t chiffon. Whatever it was, it was brought forcefully down on his right thigh. A cat o’ nine tails. Gordon arched his back, and felt the force of the leather whip hit his left thigh. ‘You’re a very naughty boy,’ purred Norelle. ‘you want to be whipped, you slut, arching your back like that. You know that now I’ll have to punish you.’ There was a cracking noise, and Gordon’s cheek stung where she had slapped it. Then, soothing, the tickle of leather brushing so lightly across his cheek that he couldn’t be sure it had actually happened. His breathing was shallow now.

Wax

Camera flash

Come too soon

Turned on by the heat
Chapter – Nelly’s nightmare

Nely hadn’t slept a wink for three nights. She’d been too afraid. The house was turning into a cross between fort Knox, a perfume still, and the scene of a recent miracle. The metal shutters on all the windows were closed. For the windows that faced Gordon’s house, both the blinds and the curtains were closed too. Hardly any light could creep into the house at all, the only access now being through the windows in the front and back doors, and they both had curtains in them, albeit flimsy ones, and in the kitchen and the hall, light drifted in, uninvited.
She was burning as much incense, oils and herbs as she could get away with. There were peculiar smells emanating from every room, some sweet, some acrid, and all in an attempt to cleanse the house. Nelly wondered how long she could last, burning these precious and sacred herbs before she either ran out or gassed herself. My girl, right now, she thought, maybe gassin’ meself would come easier, cause then at least I could get some sleep, now. Her angelica plants were mere twigs, compared to their former leafy glory, and she had already run out of rosemary.

17.11.01

Chapter Thirteen
Gordon was sitting in the bath, up to his neck in fruits of the forest flavoured bubbles when a call came through on his mobile. Gordon knew who it would be when he answered it, too.
‘Mbeke Mbembe – and how are you this morning?’ asked Gordon, leaning his head to one side and cradling his mobile gingerly between his shoulder and his ear.
‘Gordon, lad, watch you don’t electrocute yourself there… that wouldn’t be a nice surprise for anyone, especially not with a return to form, now, would it?’ Mbeke Mbembe’s voice boomed down the line.
Gordon sighed, ‘No that wouldn’t be very nice at all, that is of course if that was to happen,’ said Gordon, not in the nicest of moods today, and quite happy to gear himself up for an argument if that was what was needed.

Gordon has another conversation with Mbeke Mbembe – we find out for sure he’s the devil

Home | Chapter 14

16.11.01

Chapter Ten

Neville was on the porch, starting into space still. Bea walked out and looked down at him. One day, she thought, one day, I’m going to take that bloody Lazy Boy and burn it. Horrible thing! Bea turned around, inspecting the rest of the porch, which was much more appealing. Pots of oregano, parsley and rosemary, hanging baskets brimming with ageratum and busy lizzy, a large and beautiful wind chime that Norelle had bought her a few years ago, and a painted wooden seagull mobile that flapped if you pulled a cord. All beautiful, all hers. Neville was hers too, but he wasn’t beautiful. Well not any more, anyway. He’d been a fine figure of a man when he was younger though. Now look at him, snoring slightly, mouth agape, the only other sign of life an occasional flick of the wrist as flies buzzed by. There were days when she ached to cover the Lazy Boy in a nice velour, or a pretty chintz. Come to think of it, there were days when she wanted to cover Nev in a nice velour, or a pretty chintz. Bea chuckled to herself at the thought. The nearest she’d got to that was getting Neville to wear a flowery tie to her sister’s wedding in 1969.
She went back inside and sat down at the table. Her tea would be lukewarm by now, but she didn’t mind. Stirring sugar into the old china cup, she looked down and noticed lumps of curd floating amidst the earl grey. Frowning, she threw the lumpy tea down the sink and opened the fridge to see which jug of milk was off. The smell hit her straight away, and with a wrinkled nose, she grabbed the offending jug and tipped it down the sink. She must have left it out for too long. Oh well, these things are sent to try us, she thought as she rinsed the jug. I must have left it out for too long.
Just then the phone rang, and Bea dashed across the kitchen to answer it.
‘Hello?’ asked Bea.
‘Hi Mum,’ came the voice on the other end of the line. It was Norelle.
‘Norelle! Hello darl!’ Bea responded enthusiastically. ‘How are you going?’
‘Ahh, not so bad, mum, I was wondering if you wanted a visitor next weekend, actually. Thought I might get out of town for a few days.’
Bea couldn’t tell with Norelle whether she just wanted a break, or if something was actually going on that Norelle wanted to get away from, but that didn’t matter. ‘Oh, love, that’d be great! We haven’t seen you in ages!’ Bea cupped her hand over the phone and called out to Neville through the flyscreen ‘Neville! Norelle’s going to come home at the weekend!’
‘Nnggh,’ said Neville.
‘Mum, next weekend,’ said Norelle, a little testily.
‘What darl? Oh right,’ said Bea, back into the receiver. She cupped her hand over the mouth piece again. ‘Next weekend, Neville!’
‘Nnggh,’ said Neville, again, clearly annoyed at being bothered twice in a minute, and especially when she knew he was sulking.
‘So what have you been up to?’ asked Bea, conspiratorially. She couldn’t really understand why Norelle always gave the same answer to this question. Surely living in the city was much more exciting than living here in Yungaburra? It wasn’t a bad place, but it was so far away from everything. Bea could hardly wait for the Country Women’s Association trip to the city – a twice yearly event.
‘Oh, not much really,’ murmured Norelle, shattering Bea’s reverie.
‘Still,’ said Bea, in an encouraging tone, ‘It’s better than here isn’t it? More to do.’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ said Norelle. Then, Bea heard a mumbling from the other end of the line. ‘Umm, hang on, mum.’ It was Norelle’s turn to cover the mouth piece. Bea strained her ears but couldn’t make anything out. ‘Yeah,’ said Norelle, mistakenly into the phone. ‘Oh, sorry mum. So. Right, I’m coming home on Thursday, can dad pick me up? Cause I’m going to book a flight. Or, umm, no, it’s alright, I’ll just hire a car. Save dad having to drive all the way out to the airport. I know he doesn’t like to go all that way.’
‘Mmmm’ nodded Bea in assent. Everyone in the family was well aware of Neville’s rabid predilection for not moving anywhere ever, if at all possible.
‘And I’ll be flying out again on the Monday. Is that ok with the both of you?’
‘Hmm?’ asked Bea, absentmindedly, knowing that something special would have to take place for the fact that Norelle was coming home.
‘Mum, is that ok? Coming in on Thursday and leaving again on Monday?’ Norelle could find these phone calls a bit stressful at times. ‘And mum?’
‘Hmm? Oh – yes love?’
‘Mum, I don’t want anything special going on, I’m only home for the weekend, so you don’t need to go mad organising anything, okay?’
Bea nodded.
‘mum, are you thtere? Did you hear me?’ asked Norelle.
‘Mmmh, sure. Oky doky darl. Well, I’d better go tell your dad, then. He’s in a sulk at the moment, thought it was my birthday this morning and then got all moody when I told him it wasn’t. silly thing.’
Norelle laughed. ‘Well, it sounds like he’s carrying on just thte same as normal, then! Ok mum, I’m at work, so I’d better go before they catch me. So I’ll see you on Thursday then?’
‘Yes love, have a nice day, see you on Thursday. Ooh, what time will you be getting here?’ asked Bea, wondering if she’d need to buy extra for lunch as well as dinner.
‘Well, as I remember, I think my flight gets in at about 11.30 in the morning, so I should get to Yungaburra, hmm, about half past two?
So I’ll see you then.’
‘Okay, darl, I’ll see you on Thursday then. Bye!’ Bea put the phone back in its cradle and walked out onto the porch with a smug little smile. She loved it when Norelle came home; it was like Christmas, a special occasion for her. And she had a lot to organise.
‘Neville, darl, that was our Norelle on the phone,’ said Bea to the lump in the Lazy Boy.
‘Nnggh,’ said the lump.
‘She’s going to come home on Thursday,’ said Bea, smiling all the while.
‘Nnggh,’ said the lump again. And then, ‘oh god, and I suppose muggings here will have to pick her up from the bus station, eh?’
‘Actually,’ said Bea, ‘she’s coming in on the plane.’
‘What?!’ spluttered the lump, kicking into action. ‘Oh bloody hell, that’s miles away, and I still don’t like her going in the Fairlane, she’s too messy.’ Neville had bought the Ford Fairlane in 1977, brand new. It was a beautiful car, bronze (although faded now) and featured cream vinyl seats and an eight-track player; it was a beautiful piece of machinery. When Neville Jones bought it, the kids, sticky and grubby as a one year old and a four year old are wont to be, were not allowed in it. Terry, due to a bizarre digging habit he had picked up from the dog was not even allowed to touch it until he was nine years old. Bea had had to work very hard to convince Neville that wrapping the seats of the car in cellophane was a very bad idea, and even with sweat streaming down his back and between his thighs during any journey of more than two miles, Neville had taken a lot of convincing.
‘Relax, darl, she’s going to hire a car and drive over from the airport.’ Said Bea, having anticipated the frenzy that would ensue when Neville heard she was coming.
‘bloody waste of money if you ask me,’ said Neville.
‘I didn’t. And unless you want to go pick her up, you’ll have to like it or lump it, darling,’ replied Bea, patting his shoulder.
‘Nnggh,’ replied Neville, remembering his tantrum.
‘Anyway, I’m going to make some sandwiches, would you like some?’ asked Bea.
Neville’s ears pricked up at the thought of food, and his stomach executed an acidy rumble, to clarify the point somewhat. ‘Umm, yes. Thank you.’ Said Neville meekly. He leaned around in his chair to look up at his wife. ‘Umm, can I have processed chicken and tomato sauce?’
‘Bea looked down to the Lazy Boy and smiled. ‘Course you can, darl.’
Home | Chapter 11

9.11.01

Chapter nine

Gordon picked up the phone again and dialled the same number he had called the night before. It was probably better that he call sooner than later.
'Hello?' Sophia's voice was soft and deep.
'Soph. it's Gordon, how are you today?' Gordon tilted his head, holding the receiver pressed against his hunched shoulder, and he picked up the phone itself, and walked to the window, draping the cord over the couch.
'Ah, hello love. You sound a bit healthier than you did last night!'
'Yeah, I don't feel healthier though. I must be getting old, eh?' Gordon smiled at the irony of talking about age to Sophia. 'How are things?'
'Things? Oh, ok, I suppose. You'll be wanting to speak to the man himself, eh?' asked Sophia.
'Ah, only if he's around, you don't need to interrupt him or anything.'
'No, he's around, hang on - I'll get him for you,' replied Sophia, and
Gordon heard the faint clunk of the receiver being set down on the table, followed by the sounds of distant voices.
"Gordon! I knew it would be you! How are you, lad?'
'Ahh, not too bad. Adjusting to life here, really, taking it easy. And what are you up to?'
'Been playing in the shed again.'
'And what's up with you and Mrs. G? I tried to call last night, but you weren't' around.'
Ahh yes.'
'So what was up?' asked Gordon, digging.
'Well, I've changed my name. To Mbembe.'
'Oh. Right. I can see why that might have pissed her off. Mrs. God does have a nicer ring to it, you know,' reasoned Gordon.
'Yes, but I was getting so annoyed with everything. I had to do something, I couldn't work any more.'
The erstwhile God, being a somewhat ubiquitous deity, was obliged to – on hearing his name, acknowledge the user, even if he didn’t choose to act upon it. For someone like God, it was like a lifetime of constant white noise, or tinnitis. Thousands of voices a minute, crying out for help, money, even crying out during sex! Honestly, God didn’t want to see that! And the things they did in his name. Couldn’t they see he didn’t care any more? It wasn’t his problem, but no, like poverty stricken university students calling their parents. the human race kept bouncing back – like a bad cheque, like a chronic disease.
'No wonder you didn't answer me last night then. I was on the point of asking you for an instant hangover cure,' said Gordon.
'Oh really?' said Mbembe. 'Wouldn't work, you know. Jesus tried it once. Had to explain that you've got to deal with these things yourself. Part of growing up and all that.'
'So where on earth did Mbembe come from?' asked Gordon. Every single time Gordon phoned God, something like this happened, if it wasn't a name change, it was abandoning the earth in favour of some lumpy new planet that he's just created far across the solar system, and if it wasn't that, well – sometimes God could be no better than Gordon.
'Some tribe in the Congo. Nice there you know. It means 'scary giant rhino monster thing' – you don't get as many people imploring for Mbembe when they lose their car keys or they cut themselves chopping vegetables. Although, having said all that, it’s been quite annoying lately, because some blasted little documentary crew have been filming in the Congo, and talking about it, and I keep getting the heads-up for no reason at all.'
'And Sophia's annoyed just because of that?' asked Gordon. He'd always found it terribly difficult to keep up with God - and now Mbembe – there was the whole awe factor, and indeed the omniscience deal. Having someone know what you were going to say before you said it was kind of frustrating at times. Especially when you were planning activities that were less than wholesome.
‘Mm-hmm. I think she’s planning something anyway,’ replied Mbembe. The only problem with being Mbembe (that is to say, being God – albeit with a change of identity) was that anyone who was an equal, such as Sophia (better known to some as Mother Earth, and to the Gnostics as plain old Sophia, goddess of wisdom and knowledge) and occasionally Gordon, were capable of keeping information from him, so sometimes things could get very interesting at the Sophia-Mbembe household.
‘I see,’ mused Gordon, well aware of Sophia’s extensive catalogue of previous antics. ‘Well, good luck to you!’ grinned Gordon, knowing that this would wind God/Mbembe up.
‘Oh do shut up.’
Gordon did as he was told. He didn’t want to incur the wrath of Mbembe unnecessarily.
‘Anyway, tell me what’s going on down there,’ continued Mbembe. Touché, he thought, you know I know.
Gordon rolled his eyes.
‘I saw that!’
‘All right, all right, free will, mate, free will! Well, as you know, I moved in yesterday, and – as you know – I met the couple over the road – a soak called Neville Jones with muscle car envy and his cookery queen wife, Beatrice. Haven’t had a chance to talk to the woman next-door yet-’ Gordon stopped short, as Mbembe cleared his throat. ‘What?’ said Gordon, exasperated.
‘Mmmh? Oh, nothing, carry on, carry on.’
‘Righto.’ There was a muffled sound on the other end of the line. ‘What?’ he asked again, and then, ‘Are you laughing?’
‘Me? No, that’s not like me at all,’ said Mbembe sarcastically. ‘No, I’m not. Seriously though this time.’
Gordon didn’t like this – he wondered if there was something that he didn’t know, or rather something in particular that he didn’t know.
‘Okay,’ Gordon said slowly, deliberately. He lifted up a few slats in the blinds and peered through to the house next door. He could see Nelly moving around her kitchen, but he wasn’t able to see what she was doing. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a few plans, just small stuff, you know how it goes…’ he grinned.
Mbembe laughed loudly. ‘Oh, do I ever! I’ve spent half my time checking up on your plans!’
‘Yes, well, I have to keep you on your toes, eh?’ Gordon felt better now. Sometimes these conversations were too hard, sometimes, they were almost do-able.
‘You’d better go, anyway, you have to pop over and see Neville,’ said Mbembe.
Gordon shrugged, he was used to being second-guessed. ‘Umm, okay, I’ll catch up wi-’ – the line had already gone dead.
Gordon looked at the receiver. ‘Don’t do that!’ he said between clenched teeth, and put it back in its cradle. ‘Right,’ he mumbled, as he looked around for some clean clothes. A shower first might help too. Gordon walked to the bathroom, and turned on the shower as hot as it would go. Stepping into it, he felt the spray massage his scalp, and watched as rivulets of water trickled their chaotic way down his torso. Gradually, the temperature of the water began to drop and Gordon sighed and, stepped out, wrinkle-toed from the shower. He found some clothes and threw them on, wondering why he was going to see Neville. This was the thing with God, he thought. Mbembe, why in God’s name – he laughed, just having answered his own question. He still found it very hard to know when to take him – whatever his name was – with a pinch of salt at times. Sometimes he’d suggest stuff just to see if you’d do it, and if you weren’t careful, it could get you into all sorts of trouble, and he really didn’t need any help in that department. Other times, it was just God trying to be friendly – to give you a push in the right direction as it were. Gordon shook his head. He didn’t have a clue which one it might be. He was hoping the latter, but expecting the former just in case. Gordon walked over to the window again and lifted up the blinds a little. He could see Neville, sitting stock still in his Lazy Boy, guarding his house like an old dog, and the old dog beside him guarding Neville. Gordon couldn’t see any tangible cause for alarm, nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary, and life in the Jones household, it appeared, was carrying on as normal. Well, I suppose the only way I’m going to find out is if I go over there, thought Gordon as he locked the door.
Gordon crossed the street that bisected the tiny town, and walked slowly up the steps to the porch. Neville looked like he was asleep, or dead, maybe. Arms hanging loosely over the sides of the chair, head lolling to one side, and mouth agape. Was he dead? It wouldn’t be unlike Mbembe to let him find out this way. It wasn’t like Gordon had never seen a dead body before, but he didn’t relish the thought of having to deal with the paperwork and fraught nerves that invariably accompanied the average bereavement. The lost souls he’d dealt with before (often no longer having families that were either still around, or knew, or cared) went more along the ‘tag ‘em and bag ‘em’ approach. Which wasn’t really all that bad, all things considered.
But, no, Neville wasn’t dead; he shifted slightly in his sleep, and Gordon felt a wave of relief, albeit small, wash over him.
‘Hi Neville,’ called Gordon.
There was no answer. Neville didn’t even move.
‘Hello?’ tried Gordon again. ‘Neville?’
‘Nnggh,’ came the reply.
A voice inside the kitchen called out ‘You won’t get much sense out of him, you know!’ it was Bea.
Gordon knocked on the kitchen door and waved through the flyscreen. “Hello Bea.’
‘Hello, hello, come in, come in, don’t just stand there.’ Gordon stood on the doormat, and wiped imaginary mud from his feet. He was polite, and he liked to wait to be invited in.
‘Hello Bea,’ said Gordon quietly opening the door, and then closing it behind him. Bea gestured to an old wooden chair at the table and Gordon sat down. ‘So what’s up with Mr Jones then?’
‘Ahh, well might you ask, silly old fool thought it was my birthday this morning, and then, when he realised it wasn’t, went into a bit of a sulk. It happens every so often,’ said Bea, half amused, half consternated. ‘As if I should have to tell him everything, not least that I should have to wake up every morning, and say “Neville, darling, today – it’s not my birthday.”’ Bea cooed the last sentence almost seductively and Gordon laughed. Bea smiled back at him and shook her head. ‘Always was stubborn, that one. Heart’s in the right place, but might as well have candy floss between the ears, you know?’
Gordon nodded, ‘Yep, I know a few people like that myself.’ He grinned.
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Bea. ‘I’ve got some lemon squash or some tea, if you’d like.’ She was bustling around the kitchen as she talked, whisking the fresh cream she’d got from the cows that morning, and waiting for the meringues to cool, so that she could construct the über pavlova. ‘The pot’s brewing now.’
‘Tea would be great thanks,’ said Gordon.
‘Lovely,’ said Bea. ‘Ooh, this cream’s just about ready. There’s some milk in the fridge – would you mind getting it out? I’ve got my hands full at the moment.’ Bea – still whisking – nodded at her old fridge in the corner.
Gordon got up and opened the fridge door. He picked up the large metal jug, and poured milk into the two cups Bea had placed on the counter. Then he got a sinking feeling. This is not good, he thought, as he became very aware of a familiar smell – the milk in the jug was beginning to turn sour. Panicking slightly, he closed the fridge quickly and walked back to the table, hoping Bea hadn’t noticed. He gulped his tea down, not caring that it was still piping hot.
‘And how are you settling in?’ asked Bea, sitting herself down, aware of the sudden lull in conversation.
‘Oh not too bad, I still have a hell of a lot of unpacking to do,’ said Gordon, absentmindedly. ‘In fact, I should really be getting back to it, I guess. Thanks for the tea, anyway.’
‘That’s ok, dear.’ Bea got up to go to the cupboard. She picked out an old round tin with a picture of London Bridge on the lid and turned round. ‘Would you like a biscuit? Oh,’ she said, looking up to see that Gordon had already vacated the room. ‘Bye then…’
Home | Chapter Ten
Chapter Eight

Nelly was in the process of turning her house upside-down. ‘Where in the hell is that damned thing?’ She exclaimed, as she rifled through some of the remaining cardboard boxes that had been hitherto untouched. Finally, she came across a little sewing kit; ‘All for the want of a tiny needle,’ she sighed as she picked one out of the little parcel.
Nelly walked into the kitchen and sat down at her table. She started to sing an old, old song her mother’s mother had taught her as a child.
’O goli yé, goli yé,
Oua Po-drapeau, goli yé,
O Golimin goli yé oua goli yé
Oua O Po-drapeau.
O Po-drapeau! Po drapeau, ban moin lan main pour m’levé!
O goli yé oua, goli yé,
Oua o Po-drapeau.’
She picked up an egg, and made a hole with the needle at either end, the hole in the top being bigger. She blew through the first hole, and egg white came out of the hole at the opposite end, followed by a thin yellow dribble of egg yolk into a bowl on the table. She took a second egg after the first was finished, making the same holes, and letting the contents drizzle into a bowl on the table.
Nelly began to sing again; ‘O Golimin goli yé oua goli yé,’ she sang as she walked to the sink. ‘Oua O Po-drapeau,’ as she ran the tap over the two empty shells. ‘O Po-drapeau! Po drapeau, ban moin lan main pour m’levé!’ as she carefully patted the shells dry. Nelly walked over to the windowsill, and picked up one of the dozen plant pots that sat there.
‘Ah, cinquefoil, cinquefoil,’ she sang to the same tune as before. ‘Ah, cinquefoil, oh five finger grass, strengthen this house vers l’enfer, make us strong against evil, cinquefoil, oh five finger grass, protect this house against evil.’
Nelly began to cut shoots and leaves from the plant, carefully piling them into the centre of the table. With her scissors, she deftly chopped the shoost and leaves into even tinier pieces, until there was a substantial little mountain of chopped five finger grass on the table. She took an egg, and carefully started to push the chopped up bits of five finger grass into the larger of the two holes she’d made in the first egg. Nell lit a red candle, and, once the first egg was full, she began to drip globs of wax around the hole in the top of the egg. The red wax soon began to seal the hole of the egg, and once it was completely sealed, Nelly turned the Egg upside down and sealed the pinprick at the other end of the egg. ‘Wonderful,’ she said, once it was finished. ‘O goli yé, goli yé,
Oua Po-drapeau, goli yé,
O Golimin goli yé oua goli yé
Oua O Po-drapeau.
O Po-drapeau! Po drapeau, ban moin lan main pour m’levé!
O goli yé oua, goli yé,
Oua o Po-drapeau.’
Nelly looked at the result proudly. Perfect! She took the second egg, and the same process began again, using the second half of the pile of cinquefoil that she had so carefully chopped. She sang as she went.
Nelly grew up in New Orleans, and had lived almost all her life surrounded by people who practiced vodou, santeria and the New Orleans variation, hoodoo. Nelly herself had been equally cursed and blessed with a talent for visions, divining the future and healing, and as a result had become a priestess, a mam’bo. People would come to her for everything from trouble in the marital bed to trouble with the cops, help with ridding oneself of illnesses, jinxes and hexes, and inviting good luck and wealth of all kinds. Indeed her career as a santeria mam’bo had been quite promising, until she met Francesco La Mana, otherwise known as Frankie the Hand. In New Orleans, a small time hoodlum with the protection of the orisha ochosi can go a long way. A santeria priestess with the protection of a small time hoodlum and his band of wise guys can go even further. And, when it all turned sour, it turned out that a santeria priestess implicated in (but not guilty of) a series of armed robberies, drug deals and gangland murders would have to go even further than that; all the way to Australia to feel safe, and even then, Nelly locked her bedroom door at night and memorised the number plates of any one car that drove behind her ageing Holden for too long. As far as she knew, Frankie the Hand was in the slammer doing eighteen years, with enough crosses and jinxes on him that merely crossing the road could be considered a dangerous, nay, life threatening activity, but you couldn’t be too careful, and to mess with Francesco La Mana was to mess with any number of reprobates cruising through the deep south.
Glad that’s over, thought Nelly, as she prodded tiny pieces of limp, green, chopped five finger grass through the hole in the second eggshell. Bad times, mmh-hmm. Not easy to get out here, but I made it, eventually, oh yeah. Nelly Barbelo’s astonishing all-natural, all-herbal pharmacopoeia had proved a great difficulty to get past the Australian customs officers, but as everything that was tested was all natural, and, more importantly, all legal, Nelly had, after a helluva long time in the interrogation room, prevailed and been let through. (And handed out some Stay Away powder to be used on the mother in law of a curious and sympathetic customs officer in the process.)
Using the same red candle, Nelly dripped wax over the hole in the eggshell to seal it in, and sang a last verse of the ancient song.
‘O goli yé, goli yé,
Oua Po-drapeau, goli yé,
O Golimin goli yé oua goli yé
Oua O Po-drapeau.
O Po-drapeau! Po drapeau, ban moin lan main pour m’levé!
O goli yé oua, goli yé,
Oua o Po-drapeau.’
Two eggs, covered in waxy splodges from the red candle. Nell y picked one up in each hand and weighed them up, trying to see if either one was heavier. Both weighed the same. Good. So, thought Nelly, all I got to do now, take this over for poor Bea, stop him hassling her man, Neville useless enough as it is without having him around. She looked out of her window, tweaking her net curtains to get a better view of the house opposite. She could see Gordon sitting on the porch reading. He looked up and waved at her. Shit! She thought, nice one there, Nelly, he’ll be after you too next, you got to be careful, my girl! She dropped the curtain back into place and looked at the mess she’d made; there were wax drips all over her table, and tiny aromatic clippings of five finger grass, chaos surrounding the two precious eggshells. She washed her hands, wondering if moving here had been the right thing to do. Safer than Sydney, she thought, an’ anyway, that little eggshell gonna protect me now. Juss need to cut a bit of angelica so that I can spread it roun’ the place, juss for good measure, eh?
She walked back to the windowsill where the leafy plant was resting and picked it up. Sitting once again at the table, she reached for her scissors and began to cut shoots from the stems, chopping them up as finely as she could. She picked up the tiny shreds and walked from room to room, singing another song, asking the orisha Obatala, the god of all that was moral, for help. Gone were the days when she would address the Orisha Ochosi, the god of the hunt and of justice, for help keeping the law away from Frankie. These days, she used her power strictly for good. And she felt better for it, too.
Nelly sprinkled a tiny bit of angelica into the outermost corner of each room, imploring Obatala for protection as she did so. That task done, she cleaned up the kitchen, prising droplets of wax from the kitchen table with a talon like manicured thumbnail. It was now time to go.
Nelly picked up the egg, and opened her kitchen door. Gordon was still on the porch opposite, and he looked up from his book and nodded to her as she glanced at him. Shit, shit, shit! She thought. Any attention she gave him was a very bad omen; she couldn’t feel her power being drained, but nor did she want to take any chances. With the merest of glances sideways, she crossed the road – fortunately, there were no road trains coming through – and she primly walked up the steps to Bea’s kitchen door and knocked three times on the door frame.
Nelly’s substantial silhouette took up a lot of the doorway, and Bea looked up to see Nelly waving at her through the fly screen.
‘Oh, hello Nelly, love,’ said Bea, beckoning her to come in. Nelly, who didn’t want to carry the wax covered egg with less than two hands, opened the door awkwardly. She stepped inside, and held out the egg to Bea.
Bea looked at it as most people would look at a slightly harassed looking African American lady delicately holding an egg covered in globs of wax – that is to say, with a slightly bemused expression on her face.
Nelly realised she had a bit of explaining to do, and, nodding, offered the egg for Bea to take. ‘It’s a symbol of good luck,’ she said, slightly out of breath, ‘I give them to kind people, to ensure a happy home life and good luck in all endeavours. Just pop it on a shelf, somewhere, Bea, and you can guarantee that it’ll look after you.’ Nelly grinned, feeling that people were suddenly a lot less open to alternative religions than she was used to.
Bea, realising that this egg was a gift and not just the result of a bizarre poultry accident, took it gingerly and lifted it up to look at it in the light. ‘Oh, it’s lovely – Nelly, that’s so kind of you!’ Bea reached over with her free hand, and squeezed Nelly’s hand.
Nelly grinned again, feeling better about everything now. ‘Well, I s’pose I’d better be getting back, I’ve… umm, used the rest of the eggs in a…’ Nelly paused for effect ‘…more conventional way, and they’re in the oven right this moment.’
‘Oh, oky doky then,’ said Bea. ‘Sure you won’t stay for a cup of tea?’
‘Umm, no, I don’t want to burn my lunch! Maybe we can have a coffee later on this afternoon?’ asked Nelly.
‘That’d be lovely,’ said Bea, as nelly backed out of the door. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
‘Of course, I’ll pop over later!’ called nelly, who was already on the porch and halfway down the stairs.
Bea looked at the egg, and carefully placed it on one of the shelves, shaking her head.
Home | Chapter 9

7.11.01

Chapter 7

Bea and Nelly were in the kitchen, still laughing. Neville was in the bathroom, glowering at himself in the mirror. Not my fault I got he date wrong, he thought. Could’ve happened to anyone. Even his faithful old dog (Deefer: clever play on words, that was) had been sitting in the kitchen, mouth open, tongue lolling out to one side, wheezing as he breathed, and it sounded like laughter. Mind you, even he had to admit it, Neville thought to himself, he wasn’t looking too terrific right now. His hair – what was left of it – was sticking up at different angles, none of which he felt helped him cultivate the suave man about town impression that he normally gave off. His comb-over was in a bit of a state, strands of it flopping into his eyes.
Once, Neville remembered, before Norelle was born, he’d become quite attached to a particular brand of hair crème, and Bea had hated it. He had continued using it anyway, although he could see that it was clearly driving Bea mad. She used to tell him that it would make his hair fall out sooner or later. This point was driven home even further when one day, his hair did start to fall out, huge clumps of it, into the sink. Neville had screamed, and Bea, seven months pregnant (with Norelle) had dropped the bowl she was holding (from which she had been licking the icing) and had run into the bathroom to see Neville, who had picked up a clump of hair and was whimpering. Bea looked after him that day; she washed his hair with a gentle soap, and patted his distressed scalp dry with a fluffy towel. Neville threw away his traitorous pomade and never used anything on his hair again other than coal tar shampoo, which was the only other thing he could find where the smell could irritate Bea almost as much.
Unknown to Neville, however, there was a perfectly rational explanation for all of this. Bea, unable – and, more to the point, unwilling – to cope with having to wash her husbands pillow cases free of the same perfumed grease every day, had struck upon the idea that it wouldn’t be overly malicious to add a bit of Nair to the little pomade jar on the bathroom shelf, so for about a week she diluted Neville’s hair treatment with a little hair treatment of her own, especially as the Nair wasn’t being used (Bea didn’t mind underarm hair, and the bump that was Norelle meant that hair-free legs were almost impossible – and a bikini line was definitely unthinkable).
The denial of baldness, and the overwhelming desire to grow one’s hair significantly longer on one side, coupled with the hopeful self-deceit of brushing long strands across a shining pate in order to appear to oneself ‘not bald’ has puzzled many people (it puzzled Bea greatly) but to Neville, this was almost a subconscious, nay, primeval thing. Neville looked at his bedraggled comb-over in the mirror. Not only were his strands out of place, but the rest of his hair – what there was of it – made him appear (according to the old expression) like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. He suddenly felt very embarrassed and ashamed of his appearance. He looked down at his pyjamas; they were covered in dirt and dust, and there was a large rip in the leg. It was very likely, tat Bea was going to kill him. Once she and that stupid Nelly woman had stopped laughing, that was.
He undressed wearily (for the morning had been filled with apparently unnecessary exertion, and he hadn’t even had breakfast yet. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if Bea would make him some after all that palaver. Neville Jones was indeed feeling very sorry for himself. In front of the mirror, he struck a few half-hearted strongman poses, and even they failed to cheer him up. Standing in the shower, Neville felt the jet of water wash over him, wishing it could wash so much more away.
* * *
Bea bustled around the kitchen while the kettle boiled, and Nelly talked.
‘Lord, that man o’ yours, don’t know where you find him, but he priceless!’ Nelly shook her head, her whole body registering aftershocks from her previous fit of laughter.
‘Poor Nev,’ said Bea. She was beginning to feel bad now. ‘I’ll go and see how he is in a few minutes, poor little lamb chop…’
‘Sure, he gonna be alright? He gonna live, ya think?’ asked Nelly, and they both burst out laughing once again.
‘I think his pride was wounded more than anything else,’ grinned Bea. ‘He’ll feel better when he gets some breakfast down him.’
‘Ahh, speaking of which,’ purred Nelly Barbelo, ‘did you say you had a few spare eggs? I think I’ll have to get some chickens of my own, build myself a little chicken coop, or somethin’.’
‘Of course, darl. How many did you want?’
‘Mmmh now. Could ya spare say, a half dozen?’ Nelly knew she’d probably need more, but she could see how many eggs were in the basket, and didn’t want to push things.
Bea leant over and, looking into the basket, did a quick calculation. ‘Sounds great! Sure you don’t need any more?’
‘Umm, I think that’ll be juss ‘bout fine,’ beamed Nelly. ‘An’ I s’pose I better leave you to it.’ She took the small basket with its precious cargo from Bea, and left Bea in the kitchen, bustling around to prepare Neville’s breakfast.

Bea took four of the remaining eggs and cracked them on the edge of a large glass bowl. The deep yellow of the yolks blended with the creamy whites as she whisked. A half-ladle full of cream from the fridge, a bit of salt and pepper too. This was a routine Bea could do with her eyes closed, and (sometimes, she thought) with one hand tied behind her back.
Soon, the aroma of hot buttered toast and scrambled eggs wafting about the kitchen. She placed a plate of food onto the table, stirred the tea in the pot and called Neville, who was by now, out of the shower.

Neville marched into the kitchen, having made an extra effort to look appropriately neat after his embarrassing lapse this morning. Shirt tucked in, shorts pulled high around his waist (or where one would usually find the waist on a person of slimmer stature), socks pulled up to the knee. Strands of hair had been painstakingly plastered down over his male pattern baldness. Sitting at the table, he folded his arms and rolled his eyes at his wife. Unfortunately, the aroma of the food was proving too tempting, and he gave up and began to eat.
‘How’s your breakfast, darl?’ asked Bea.
‘Nnggh.’ Neville was in no mood to be placated. If it wasn’t her birthday today, she should have bloody well told him, he thought.
Those flowers you picked for me were lovely; look,’ Bea pointed to a small vase on top of her fridge where there cowered a motley collection of battered wild roses.
‘Nnggh.’
‘Oh it’s like that is it?’ Bea was never one to get flustered with Neville, but neither was she one to suffer fools gladly.
‘Nnggh,’ said Neville, noncommittal tones seeping into his single word vocabulary. Plate cleared of food, he stood up and, after stretching, marched out onto the porch and sat down in his Lazy Boy.
Home | Chapter Eight

5.11.01

Chapter 6

Thud. Thud. Thud. Bleary eyed, Gordon squinted at the light seeping through the blinds on the window. Thud. He rolled over. What was that noise? Thud, there it was again. He looked at his watch, six thirty a.m.
He sat up, with the slow but horrific realisation that the thudding (thud) noise was coming from inside his (thud) head. Thud. Not having experienced such pain for an incredibly long time, he was not best pleased by this turn of events His head, achy and cumbersome flopped back onto the mattress, and he groaned.

* * *

Bea had been up for some time already, and was in the process of milking the last cow, Daisy. Daisy was her cow, unlike the other two, which Neville had named Elfer and Emfer. Ridiculous names, Bea had thought, until Neville, in one of his more patient moods one day, had explained that they were called Elfer Leather and Emfer Milk. Bea hadn’t thought it was very funny herself, but there are situations where you suddenly become aware that you’re supposed to laugh, and that was one of them, so she had chuckled politely as Neville guffawed.
Today, she was sat, leaning forward on a rickety old stool that had one leg shorter than the other three, praising daisy for being a good girl as she milked her. Elfer was a real pain to milk, and although Emfer was better behaved (and with a name like that, she seemed happier to be milked than Elfer) Bea always saved her favourite ‘til last.
Task finished, she reached up to stroke Daisy’s back, picked up the bucket of milk, and, lurching to one side, she walked carefully back out if the shed, up the old wooden steps leading to the porch and into the kitchen.
Inside the substantial kitchen, Bea was in her element. She had enjoyed cooking since she was a little girl, and pottering in the kitchen, combined with the weekly Country Women’s Association meetings were her favourite things. Throughout the years, Bea had amassed a fine collection of culinary gadgetry from the mundane (KitchenAid blender, electric knife) to the rarely used (novelty egg slicers that her children had bought her when they were little, two fondue sets) to the oblique (electric tortilla press, clay garlic baker). The biggest, and there were days (usually not a KitchenAid day, though) when she would say it was also the best, was the big old fridge, which sat in the opposite corner from the ‘general purpose’ fridge. This was the fridge that Neville was not allowed to go in, and more importantly, eat from. Bea had had it for fifteen years, and it was old when she got it, cream and sky blue in colour, with chrome piping and a chunky chrome handle. It had been Terry’s idea, albeit inadvertently. Terry had come home from school one day to find Bea and Neville arguing over the fact that Neville had come home early, and polished off that night’s dessert in the space of time it had taken Bea to cycle to the shop and back. Terry, filled with teenage sarcasm, and siding with his father (who had become more interesting since he’d started letting Terry play with his power tools), had shouted ‘Well why don’t you just get another fridge then?’ Both Neville and Bea were instantly silenced, and Neville, eyes still bulging from a combination of righteous anger and the sheer amount of sugar coursing through his veins, blinked at his son, and said quietly ‘Vern wants to get rid of his old one.’ Bea was delighted with this outcome and made Neville move one of the cupboards to make space for it that evening.
It was into this fridge that Bea put the fresh milk, so it would be easier to skim off the cream later. Yesterday’s pavlova at Nelly’s had been so successful that she wanted to re-create the experience.

* * *

Nelly had hardly slept a wink. She couldn’t understand why he was here of all places. Like a small child, she had spent the night hiding underneath the sheets, knowing full well that mere covers would not protect her, but feeling it necessary to hide nevertheless. Around her, the room was scattered with candles, and a circle of salt surrounded the bed. At seven, tired, but unable to sleep, she climbed wearily out of the ancient bed, sagging in the middle, and bowed from a lifetime of dreaming.
It was hot already. Nelly stood up, and stretched. Things not so scary in daylight, she thought, no matter how bad the scary thing is. Mebbe I was juss gettin' new house jitters… know how it is when you move into a new place anyway.
With that in mind, Nelly lifted her nightdress slightly, stepped gingerly over the circle of salt, and walked to the bathroom.

* * *

Bea made her way back out into the garden, and down to the chicken run. A couple of crows cawed overhead, and Bea looked up to see them circling, one hand on the top of her straw hat, to avoid it falling off. She opened the gate to the chicken run, squeezing through the tiny gap, as the chickens pecked the ground around her feet. There were plenty of eggs this morning, which was good, as Bean had big plans in the kitchen today – scrambled eggs for breakfast, not sure yet what to cook for lunch, but definitely pavlova for that evening’s dessert, as it had (quite literally) gone down so well yesterday afternoon.

* * *

Nelly walked out of her kitchen into the early morning sunshine. She looked across at Gordon’s house, frowning. There was no sign of movement inside. Maybe she’d imagined it? No. It was definitely him. Nelly had never had to deal with anything like this before, and she was hoping she was up to the task, because who knows what might happen otherwise? She shook her head, ‘Bad times. Lord knows, bad times.’
Over the road, she could see Bea pottering in the garden, in the chicken run. And then she realised. Eggs, I’m going to need lots of eggs, thought Nelly.

* * *

Neville lay in bed wondering when he might like to get up for breakfast. It was still early, but – as appears to be quite common in older people – there seemed to be less and less need for sleep. He could hear Bea humming to herself in the garden as the chickens squawked and flapped their wings around her. So, he surmised, I have a choice, I can get up and make my own breakfast, or I have to stay put in bed until breakfast is made for me. With that in mind, he settled back under the single sheet and feigned sleep. Unable to get comfortable, he tossed and turned, willing himself into sleep, to no avail. Maybe it was because he was getting hungry too early or something. What if Bea had forgotten about him? She had never had the best memory, even when he had married her. Surely it wasn’t so. But the only smell he could smell was the smell of breakfast not being ready. This was not good, and oh God! – there was that time when she’d forgotten the tomato sauce on his sandwiches when he’d gone fishing to the river last week – she had forgotten!
He pulled the covers over his head and groaned. But he remembered stuff all the time, even complicated things like picking Norelle up from the train station when she would come home from university for the weekend, penniless and tired. He always remembered when Terry borrowed his tools. He’d remembered Bea’s birthday last summer… had it come round already this year? Come to think of it, I have no idea what date it is, thought Neville. Maybe it’s today? No,it can’t be. Last year, Bea had very patiently pointed out exactly what she wanted from the catalogue over a month in advance – surely she’d do the same this year? Has she been dropping any hints? thought Neville. He didn’t think so, but then it dawned on him that he tended not to listen to her. Christ, I’m in serious trouble. It must be her birthday. Oh shit, what if it was her 60th? Now he was in trouble. He catapulted out of bed, and ran to the window. She was in the chicken run. If he was quick, he still had time.

* * *

Too hungover to sleep comfortably, Gordon lay on the bare mattress, hands resting behind his head, mulling over the events of the day before. He didn’t think he’d spent that long at Neville’s, but last night’s blood alcohol level told an altogether different story. He was clearly out of practice. He groaned and covered his face with his hands. He’d rung Sophia. Oh, nice one, Gordon, thought Gordon sarcastically – that was all you needed. That meant Sophia would now have his number logged into her all-knowing caller ID phone. And Gordon had always prided himself on being untraceable – late night calls from telephone boxes in obscure locations – never being around when you wanted him. It suited his fly by night nature.
He’d have to call her back, apologise, the damage was done.

* * *

Neville ran out into the garden in his pyjamas, and tore down the steps leading from the porch down to the road. ‘Oh bloody hell!’ he cried, running back towards the house. Momentum carried him further than the kitchen door, but thankfully the Lazy Boy stopped him, with a sharp whack in the shins ‘Oowh, shit’ yelped Neville. He walked slowly into the kitchen, feeling as though he ought to be limping, but unable to decide which leg hurt worst. He picked up the phone and punched out a familiar number.
‘Hello?’
‘Terry…’ the exercise, which had finished as abruptly as it had begun, was making Neville wheeze slightly. He bent over, his free hand resting on his thigh.
‘Dad, is that you? Are you ok?’
‘Well of course I’m bloody ok!’
‘Dad… it’s seven thirty…’
‘Terry, listen, it’s your mother’s birthday. Get her something, would you? I have to go.’ Neville didn’t believe in imparting more information than was strictly necessary by telephone, and also sometimes face-to-face. And if he could get away with less information, that was even better. (At least for him.)
‘But Dad… it’s not Mum’s birthday until the end of February…’ Terry was cut short – Neville had already hung up the phone.
Neville rushed back out to the front of the house with a pair of secateurs, and began to frantically chop at the roses that grew there.

* * *
Nelly waited patiently on the porch until she saw Bea make her way back up the steps. She locked her door and crossed the dusty road that lay between her house and Bea’s place. She looked curiously at Neville and nodded to him, as she passed. Bea sure got a lot on her plate with this one, she thought and shook her head slightly. Neville grunted as she swept past, climbing the stairs.
‘Hello?’ called Nelly as she reached the door. ‘You there, Bea?’
‘Ooh, hello, come in,’ said Bea, smiling.
‘An’ how are you this mornin?’ asked Nelly, masking her anxiety, and her need for eggs.
‘Oh, lovely, It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? And how was your first night in your new home?’
‘Ah, you know, takes a while to settle in, eh? Still, ‘s a lovely house, ain’t it?’ answered Nelly, as truthfully as she felt she could get away with.
‘I suppose it must take a bit of getting used to, eh? You’d be used to all that city noise, wouldn’t you?’ asked Bea.
‘Ohh, yeah, you bet! So quiet here! Nelly exclaimed. ‘Hey, umm, I was wondering, ‘s I know you got those chickens, iff’n I might be able to buy a few eggs from you? I didn’t realise I ran out already…’
Bea nodded. ‘Oh, for sure -‘ she stopped short.
Neville, grinning, had run into the kitchen. His pyjamas were muddy at the knees and torn at one elbow. A strand of hair was caught in his eyelashes, and he kept trying to blink it away, unsuccessfully. He licked the palm of one hand and attempted to flatten his hair, and sidled up to her with a scruffy bunch of wild roses in the other hand. ‘Happy birthday, love.’ He held out the roses.
Bea looked at Neville.
‘Phooee!’ Nelly raised an eyebrow. She was findin it very hard not to chuckle.
Bea started to laugh. ‘But Neville, my birthday’s not till next month!’
Home | Chapter Seven

4.11.01

Chapter 5

Gordon wandered into his new living room, and flaked out on his new couch. ‘God, what a day!’ he exclaimed. He’d taken a fair number of beers of Neville’s hands, more than he’s meant to, and the effects were showing. Most people out here drank as a means of combating the heat. Gordon didn’t mind the heat; he just drank to keep up with everyone else – the Joneses, if you will. The room was spinning slightly; Gordon wasn’t sure if this was a pleasant sensation or not – for the moment he was prepared to go with the flow anyway. He became aware of an overwhelming need to go to the toilet, which was likely to prove difficult, for Gordon felt unable to move – one leg dangling uselessly over the side of the couch, the other resting against the back, where it had landed when he had flopped backwards into the welcoming seats. ‘I can do this,’ he said, a little too loudly, to no one in particular. ‘Right,’ He concentrated on moving his left leg from the back of the couch to the arm rest, then it would be next to his other leg, he reasoned, and that might be easier, as if maybe they needed a bit of moral support to start working again. He giggled to himself, finding the idea of his legs needing moral support quite ridiculous. With what seemed like a gargantuan effort, he managed to get enough momentum to move it and ‘Aargh!’ he yelped. True, he had managed to get his right leg next to his left one, but using slightly too much energy, combined with a miscalculation of distance had meant that his right ankle bone had slammed rather harshly into his left ankle bone, with a very painful result. ‘Ow, God, that hurt!’ he cried, starting to feel very sorry for himself now. But tonight it appeared that God wasn't listening, because the pain was still there and so was the now excruciating need to go to the toilet.
The blinds, which were drawn, blocked out the last of the fading rays of the sunset, and Gordon, in the darkness, made a concerted effort to get up. He swayed on his feet, to the left, and then to the right. Leaning back around to the couch, he placed a hand on its sturdy arm, and began to grope for the light switch on the wall. Two hands now, palms flat against the wall. Gordon leaned forward until his forehead touched the coolness of the wall. It was so comfortable. The light switch must be somewhere, but Gordon decided that maybe he could look for it later. He rolled to the side, his cheek squashed against the plaster, mouth open slightly. ‘Nnggh,’ I really need to piss, he thought. Okay, he could do this, and without urinating on his own floor. Cheek still resting on the wall, he propelled himself forward, dragging his fingers along the surface of the wall as he moved. Plastic. There was a plastic thing on the wall, and his fingers fumbled over it till he found the switch. Nothing happened. Then the room began to hum. Thass not right, thought Gordon, I’ve never had a light that hums before. Bloody freezing, though.
Not willing to lift his head from it’s resting place on the wall, Gordon slouched his way forward. He scraped his cheek over the plastic switch, and in doing so, turned it off. The humming stopped. ‘Oh yeah, ‘s air conditioning… right,’ he slurred.
He opened the door to the hallway and felt his way down the corridor. Opening the door on the left, he unzipped his fly and then looked in confusion at shelf-filled cupboard. ‘Bugger,’ he said frowning. Staggering backwards, he turned (without incident) and walked to the next door. He opened it gingerly, not wanting to walk into another set of shelves. It was the bathroom. ‘A-ha!’ he cried. Gordon then realised that it was exactly that, the bathroom, and that there was no toilet there. ‘Shit. ‘S gotta be around here somewhere…’ He looked under the sink. ‘Nope… damnit, a man wants to piss in his own toilet… if I wanted to… piss in the sink, could… do it at… Neville’s… house…’ the pauses in his sentence corresponding with vague and uncoordinated efforts to walk.
Another door and- bingo! ‘I’m getting good at this,’ giggled Gordon to himself, ‘I know where I live’ he mumbled, ‘an’ I can find my own dunny!’ He leaned a hand against the far wall to avoid falling in, and sighed as he began to pee.
Thus relieved, Gordon staggered out to try and find his bedroom, He knew it must be here somewhere, and in any case, there were only two more doors in the hallway left to try. He lurched to the nearest door and it creaked open. The bedroom. ‘Heh, I’m getting good at this,’ mumbled Gordon, clearly pleased with himself. He flopped down on the bed, caring little, if at all, that the mattress had no sheets on it, and watched the ceiling spin in graceful arcs.
Stretching an arm out to the side of the bed, Gordon’s hand hit a familiar object. He rolled closer to it and picked up the receiver, dialling the number with his free hand. He rubbed his hand over his face, as if to facilitate lucid speech.
‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice, crisp and clear.
‘Hey, ‘s me!’
‘Who, sorry?’
‘Sophia, it’s me, Gordon, you know,’ Gordon answered complicitously.
‘Ah, Gordon, and how are things down there?’ Sophia enquired.
‘Interesting… I’ve had a bit to drink I’m afraid. Lovely new house though. Very…’ he stopped. Stuck for words. How could he describe it? ‘Very… dark.’
Sophia laughed. ‘So in other words it suits you down to the ground, then.’
Gordon could hear her smiling. ‘It does indeed, Mrs G. It does indeed. Anyway, is the master of the house around?’
‘Ehhm, no.’ said Sophia flatly. He couldn’t hear her smiling now. ‘We’ve… umm… had a bit of a row. He’s been in the shed for a couple of days. Haven’t seen him. He’ll be back though. Always is.’ Gordon could hear Sophia’s voice crack slightly as she spoke.
‘Hmm,’ said Gordon, sobering up sharply, for this was one couple he didn’t want to see split up. If they couldn’t make it, what hope was there for the rest of the world? ‘What’s up this time?’
‘Oh, I’ll let him tell you, ‘said Sophia wearily, ‘I know he sneaks in every night at some point, to raid the fridge. I’ll leave a note next to the pickles for him.’
‘Thanks, Soph,’ Gordon answered sleepily. ‘How are you holding up, anyway?’
‘Ahh, not too bad, you know what we’re like, anyway, ups and downs. Anyway, you sound like you need to go to bed. G’night.’
‘G’night, Soph.’ Gordon clinked the receiver back into it’s cradle. Poor Sophia, it wasn’t easy for her. Gordon felt bad, and not in a good way. He lay on the bed, basking in the heat of the summer night, and soon sleep claimed him.
Home | Chapter Six
Chapter 4

Something wasn’t right. Nelly Barbelo stood in the middle of the kitchen. Something was definitely not right. The kitchen was empty, cupboards and surfaces bare, the smell of ‘new’ surrounding her. It wasn’t the ‘new’ smell. Well, it was unlikely.
Nelly shrugged and began to clean. The house, being new, hadn’t yet shaken the smell of paint and varnish, cement dust and sawdust. Something might not be right, but she could still do without the smell of newness surrounding her. She’d spent most of the day with Bea, talking and swapping stories. Maybe it was too much caffeine that made her feel odd. That had happened the first time she left New Orleans – she’d drunk too much tea, had a panic attack and nearly missed her plane.

Nelly had walked into town early and picked up some supplies, and was halfway through cooking up some Creole chicken, when Bea popped her head round the door.
‘Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?’ called Bea.
‘Ahh, Bea! Come in, girl!’ cried Nelly, yanking the kitchen door open with one hand, and stirring a pot on the stove with the other.
‘Right. Now, where do you want me to put this?’ Bea held up a towering white confection, and Nelly looked at it in awe.
‘Child, what in lord’s name is that?’ Exclaimed Nelly – she was almost used to the idiosyncrasies of Australian cuisine – but yet to adjust to country versions of city dishes. She gestured to the table in the corner.
‘Pavlova. I made it myself this morning. Made the meringue with eggs I got fresh from the run, the cream I whipped up myself, after milking the cows, and the fruit’s from the back garden.’ Bea awkwardly set the behemoth dessert down on the table.
‘You know,’ exclaimed Nelly, ‘That looks amazing. Not many people would be that kind, not these days, anyhow. Anyway, you like chicken?’
Bea nodded. She fleetingly thought of the chooks in the back yard, but that had never stopped her eating chicken before, and nor was she about to stop now. Bea had never understood the idea of being a vegetarian. ‘Love it.’
‘Good. I’m doin’ an old Creole recipe – come down through the generations to me, this did. Always reminds me of home,’ said Nelly, still stirring the sauce. ‘Smells good, don’t it?’
Good was an understatement. The whole kitchen smelt wonderful, of a hundred different herbs and spices that Bea had never even encountered before. Bea, although an excellent cook, had a fairly traditional repertoire which ranged from bland to ‘I’ve just discovered paprika’, and she was amazed that food could smell this good. ‘It’s amazing,’ said Bea, breathless with the discovery of new dishes. ‘You’ll have to give me the recipe!’
‘Girl, I’m gonna have to give you all the damn herbs too! There ain’t hardly anything in the store in town!’ Nelly laughed, and nodded towards the window.
For the first time, Bea glanced up at the windowsill, and noticed a dozen little plant pots, all with different plants at various stages of development and pruning.
‘Ah, I’ve got to replant them all yet, they just need a bit of tender loving care after the long trip up here in the car with me. A heck of a long drive,’ she said, seeming to be talking more to the dishevelled seedlings than to Bea. ‘Hmm, anyway, I just got to pour the sauce on the chicken and put the lot in the oven – so how about a cup of coffee? Sound good?’
‘Lovely, sure.’ Bea watched Nelly pour the sauce into an earthenware pot, and place it all in the oven.
‘Now, coffee?’ Nelly got a couple of cups from the shelf and set them down on the table. A few minutes later, and the coffee was ready.
There was a furious revving sound from outside, and Nelly jumped, the pot she was holding splashed hot coffee onto Bea’s hand, instead of into the coffee cup that Bea had been holding.
Time slowed to the consistency of molasses, and there was a silence that seemed to last for several minutes, and then came a pitiful wail that startled them both. It came from Bea.
‘Lord, no!’ cried Nelly, ‘Oh, Bea, I’m so sorry!’ She grabbed Bea by the wrist, and pulled her out of the chair to the sink. She held Bea’s hand under the numbing jet of the cold water. ‘Right.’ Nelly looked right at Bea. ‘Stay there, keep it under the tap. I’m juss goin’ to get something.’ With that, she dashed out of the kitchen, and Bea heard her barrelling down the hallway. She came back, a minute later – ‘You’re lucky I know where all my first aid things are,’ – and reached for one of the plants on the windowsill. With a pair of scissors, Nelly cut a small handful of leaves from the plant. She chopped them up and made a poultice from the leaves with the piece of cloth retrieved from her first aid kit. ‘Right, come and sit down, don’t dry your hand. There,’ said Nelly as she placed the poultice on Bea’s shaking hand. ‘Just sit tight now.’
Bea watched Nelly, her hand was now numb from the icy water, and curiosity had taken over. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.
‘It’s for burns, works every time,’ Nelly replied. ‘An old, old recipe – something else that’s been passed down from generation to generation. You keep that on there for a while now, an’ you’ll be juss fine.’
Bea, rather enjoying being looked after, despite the unfortunate event that had necessitated it, picked up the cup from the table and waggled it. ‘So, did all the coffee go, or is there enough left for two?’
Nelly looked at her for a second and burst out laughing. ‘Lord, girl, doesn’t anything at all panic you? Here I am, inviting you roun’ for a little something to eat, an’ instead I end up throwin’ hot beverages at you, an’ you still want more? Lord, you’re truly one of a kind, girl! Is there anything on God’s green earth that could actually vex you?’
‘Well,’ mused Bea, laughing too, ‘there is Neville.’ Nelly let out a huge guffaw, which resonated around the room.
After they had eaten Nelly’s chicken and rice, and a slice or three of Bea’s pavlova (both delicious), Bea lifted the poultice from her hand. ‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed.
Nelly raised an eyebrow. “what ‘d you expect, hmm?’
‘I – I don’t know, but I didn’t expect it to heal so quickly!’ Bea’s hand looked like nothing had ever happened to it, and there was no pain at all.
‘Yeah, good, ain’t it? one of the most useful herbs in my kitchen, and no mistake,’ replied Nelly.
‘What else can you use it for?’ asked Bea.
Nelly looked at her and frowned slightly. ‘Truth be known, child, they’re not all for cooking. But places like this, you tell people that you playin’ around with herbs, an’ that it’s all medicinal, an’ they either think you some kind of drug fiend, or they think you a witch, an’ either way, you’re direckly responsible for any trouble that happens here on in, so I keep to myself, an people know where I am if they need to find me. Now I’m doing no wrong, but… well, there are people out there who think that I am, an’ unfortunately they’re the ones who could – well, you know, make life more difficult than it needs to be, when you’re my age.’
Bea, although curious, felt that this might not be the right time to push the point any further. The two women had been talking all afternoon, and Bea didn’t want to outstay her welcome. ‘Ah, Nelly, I’d better be getting back to the old man, before he gets up to too much mischief,’ Bea sighed. ‘Now, I’ll have to give you a hand with all of this, it’s the least I could do.’ Bea gestured to the few pots that had accumulated, but
‘Don’t be silly, I’ll do it,’ smiled Nelly, and shooed her out of the kitchen, ‘don’t you think you’ve got enough on your plate, what with Neville and all? You go, and take it easy now.’
‘Oky doky,’ said Bea, ‘I’ll see you later!’ Bea stepped out into the early evening, and Nelly closed the door behind her.

Alone again, Nelly charged vigorously around the kitchen, tidying what little hadn’t been cleaned as she went along. She’s always been the kind of person who would wash something up, dry it, and put it away, all before you’d had a chance to use it. She was getting a bad feeling about something, but couldn’t put her finger on it, and it was making her uneasy.

Something was definitely wrong. Nelly took a look around the kitchen, shook her head and went outside to the porch. Looking over at the house to her left, she saw Gordon unlocking his door after coming back from Neville’s. Rooted to the spot, she couldn’t help but stare at him.
He looked up and saw her. ‘Well, hello, neighbour.’
‘Hello.’ She said stiffly.
So that was what was wrong.
Home | Chapter Five

2.11.01

Chapter 3

‘Christ almighty!’ spluttered Neville, as he lay on the floor, limbs writhing, attempting to gain both his balance and his composure, and failing at both.
‘Do you need a hand?’ asked the shadow.
‘Mmmnh…’ said Neville gruffly, ‘I’ll be right,’ as he placed the miraculously unbroken bottle of beer on the floor, resuming an upright position. ‘What can I do you for?’ he asked the shadow.
‘Ah, nothing, just came round to say hello. I just moved in over the road. I’m Gordon.’
‘Ah, Gordon is it? Well, come in, come in. Don’t just stand there, eh?’ Gordon turned the handle and pushed the door open. ‘Wipe your feet first, but!’ After doing as he was told, Gordon stepped into the kitchen.
‘You got a spare one of those?’ Gordon asked, nodding to the beer, which was now back in Neville’s hand, and open.
‘Sure,’ Neville gestured to the fridge. ‘Scuse me if I don’t get it for you though; I think I’ve done something to my back. Sandwich?’ He looked up at Gordon. ‘Have a seat, mate.’
‘Cheers. Yeah, you hit the ground like a sack of shit, just then.’ Gordon peeled back the top slice of bread in the sandwich and frowned.
‘Mmmnh,’ replied Neville, who had revised the mishap in his mind, until it was perfectly acceptable, and not anything like a sack of shit. ‘Beer’s in the fridge.’
Gordon grabbed a beer and they clinked bottles. ‘So. Who are you then, the unknown soldier?’
Neville grinned and remembered his manners. ‘Well I bloody well feel like the walking wounded, don’t I, after that palaver? Christ! I’m Neville Jones, anyway. So’s that your Cobra then?’ Damn! He’d meant to be all indifferent, devil may care about it, and it was the first thing out of his mouth. Bloody hell, he thought. You’re losing your touch, there, Neville, you’ll have to be careful. He looked down at the wilting sandwich, wishing it would swallow him up.
Gordon steeled his jaw for a second, and then laughed. ‘You don’t waste time, do you? Mind you, I like people who don’t beat around the bush though… and yep, that’s my baby out there; a beauty, isn’t she?’
‘Classic piece of engineering, beautiful,’ Neville agreed, feeling more hospitable now that they were onto more common ground. Can’t beat a good convo about cars. ‘How long you had it then?’
‘Oh about a week now.’
Neville coughed. ‘You what?’
‘Yeah,’ continued Gordon. ‘I won it in a bet.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Neville shook his head, and Gordon grinned.
‘My thoughts exactly.’
‘A bet? Really? I never won anything in a bet, except a packet of cards once, with naked ladies on the back,’ mused Neville. He took a long swig of beer. ‘So what kind of man bets his Cobra?’
‘Ahh, if I told you, I’d have to kill you,’ laughed Gordon. ‘Nice though.’
‘Well of course he’s nice, he gave you his bloody Cobra, didn’t he?’ said Neville, eager to know the secret, and a bit put out that it hadn’t been him who had bumped into the foolhardy gambler.
‘Heh, the car not the guy. He was a lot less sweeter.’
Neville thought it might be time to change the subject. ‘So what in God’s name made you move to this dump?’
Change of perspective, you know…’ Gordon answered. ‘See how the other half live, get out of the rat race, blah, blah, blah… Why else do people move to the country?’ He held Neville’s gaze.
‘Mmmnh, well, it’s not like I know, lived here all my life, haven’t I? Parents used to live just down the road in the town before they carked it. Got this place with Bea in 1967 after we got married. Stayed here ever since. Retired two months ago, used to be a sparky, see? You know? Electrician. Probably rewired the whole town meself.’ He sat back in the chair, almost stunned at what he’d just said. So little done, and it had taken a lifetime to complete. When you looked at it like that, well… ‘Another beer?’
‘Sure.’
‘Get us one then. My back… not what it used to be, eh?’
Gordon rose from his chair opposite Neville and grabbed the last two bottles from the back of the fridge. ‘Any more for the fridge? These are the last two, mate,’ Gordon put them on the table.
‘Ehhm… there should be a carton next to the fridge.’
‘Righto.’ Gordon opened the carton and stacked all twenty-four into the old fridge, which had been in the house as long as Neville. ‘These should keep us going ‘til dinner time, eh?’
Neville laughed. It was good to have someone around who could appreciate his sense of humour. ‘Well, I’m sorted, mate, I don’t know about you!’ Another swig, and then a question: ‘So what did you do, before you came here again?’
Gordon looked up from his beer, and a smile played across his face. ‘What do you think I did?’
‘Well, by the look of that car, I’d say you were a professional gambler, but I asked you first, mate.’
‘Done lots of different things. At college I did a bit of philosophy and theology, but that kind of thing doesn’t really get you anywhere. I used to run a halfway house, which was interesting for a while, although some of the people there used to think it was more like a prison, and the rest seemed to treat it like a hotel… looking back, it was fun, but it got too busy, so I got out. Did a bit of counselling, you know, talking to people, advising them on how best to solve all their problems and stuff. It was interesting, and, I was never out of work – whoo! In fact, I don’t think I ever worked so hard. You just wouldn’t believe the amount of people who need help.’ Gordon said, with a look of concern. He grinned. ‘But then, I jumped ship again and did a stint in the city. Office type stuff. Paid for me to get away though, eh?’
‘Can’t say fairer than that,’ said Neville, nodding, and wondering how someone could change tack so many times. Being an electrician had been complicated enough, without having to learn new trades as you went along. Far too much like hard work.
It had started to get dark and outside, Neville heard the soft footfalls of Bea coming back after visiting Nelly over the road. He looked at the kitchen table in the half-light. Full of empties. ‘Christ,’ he muttered.
‘We in trouble are we?’ Gordon asked as Neville stood up in order to avert disaster.
‘Just got to clear these up is all,’ said Neville gruffly, as he loaded up with bottles to take out to the recycling bin. ‘See, the kitchen is Bea’s domain. She runs the whole show from this room. Now me, I’m more of your average porch guy. Comfy chair and a nice view, ‘s all I need. Well, and maybe a few beers and the dog. But that’s it, really.’
Bea walked into the kitchen. ‘Hello love- oh. Hello. I didn’t realise we had company.’ She looked at Neville, waiting, as if for an explanation, or an introduction at the very least.
‘Ehhm. Bea, this is Gordon. From over the road. Gordon, this is Bea. The wife.’
Bea, used by now to being ‘the’ instead of ‘my’, rolled her eyes slightly at Neville. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said to Gordon.
‘Charmed,’ Gordon replied, and taking the proffered hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it.
Bea made a high-pitched squeaking noise and started to blush. Neville looked at her in disbelief. Women, honestly. Slightest bit of attention, and they turn into gibbering wrecks. Better to just not give them any attention.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ asked Bea, regaining her composure.
‘It’s a lovely offer, Bea, but I’m afraid I had better go back to the old homestead – well, the new one – and start unpacking a bit. Another time?’
‘Mmm!’ Bea nodded and smiled girlishly. Neville’s eyes narrowed.
Gordon made his way to the door, and turned to face the old couple. ‘Neville, great talking to you, you’ll have to come around for a beer tomorrow, save your supplies from taking another beating. And Bea, maybe I’ll take you up on the tea tomorrow too…?’ Gordon stepped out into the evening, and once again became nothing more than a shadow, silhouetted against the flyscreen door.
Home | Chapter Four
Chapter 2

A new day, and Neville watched out of the corner of his eye as Bea climbed out of bed. It was only about a quarter past six, but someone had to go and milk their cows. And he was damned if it was going to be him. Today, whenever it started, would be a good day, though. He could feel it in his bones. Not that his average day was particularly bad since he’d retired in the spring. Get up, and hey-what-do-you-know; his breakfast would be waiting on the table. An average day would consist of sitting on the porch, making sure people behaved themselves on the road – you could get some shocking drivers – drinking beer, and if he was feeling energetic, a walk to the pub, a walk with the dog, or a stroll down to the river to fish. More often than not, Neville’s dizzy social life combined several events into one day, resulting in a tired but happy Neville, returning to snooze on the porch until either dinner or bedtime.
It wasn’t time to get up yet, though. After all, I need my beauty sleep, thought Neville, and he chuckled to himself under the doona. Neville’s interior monologue never ceased to amaze him; it could keep him amused all day. And, more to the point, he didn’t want to share it – it would have just been wasted on other people.

The sun crept higher in the sky, rays of light filtering through the curtains, highlighting specks of dust as they waltzed slowly through the treacly, summer air.

Down the hallway, Neville could hear making a fresh batch of butter. It smelt good, and Neville felt the first inkling of breakfast craving. Unfortunately, it was too early to get up. Neville convinced himself that it was still too early in the day; that he really should wait a… little… bit… longer… Ahh, there it was, the smell of buttered toast, and scrambled eggs.

What in fact was happening here was, of course, that Neville, while thoroughly convinced that it was he who decided exactly when he wanted to get out of bed, it was really Bea who was pulling the strings. Neville was guaranteed to stroll into the kitchen about ninety seconds after he smelt breakfast. Whether that was at six in the morning or 3pm in the afternoon was entirely at Bea’s discretion, and she had been known, on occasion, to make breakfast extremely late in order to have a bit of peace and quiet to get on with things without Neville getting under her feet.

Neville strolled into the kitchen in his dressing gown, looking like Noel Coward gone bush, and sat down at the table.
‘Morning, love. Breakfast ready, is it?’

Bea gave him a peck on the cheek as she popped a plate in front of him.
‘Smells good, my girl, smells good. I – bloody hell!’
Bea spun round to see Neville rising slowly from his seat, one arm pointing at the window. Outside, there was a removal truck, pulling up outside the empty house across the street.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said again, shaking his head. Neville looked down at his plate of food, and lowered himself gingerly back into his seat. ‘Could’ve told me.’
Bea stopped washing up. ‘I was going to tell you. Honestly, it’s just a truck!’
Neville put his hand up to silence her ‘Not you, love. That mob out there. Bloody hell, been waiting weeks for this!’
He looked down at his plate. He’d hardly touched his food. Neville, mate, he thought, you’re gonna have to work fast if you want to see what’s going on. The eggs and toast disappeared in a matter of seconds, and he ran to the bathroom for a shower. Not bothering with soap, the shower was little more than a ceremonial wetting of the pate – a sign that the day had well and truly started. Back to the bedroom and – Socks! thought Neville, clean socks! There must be some somewhere... ahh. Right. Socks, great. He ran his palm over his head, flattening several long strands that disguised his baldness.
The flyscreen door was flung open. Neville, ready (finally!) to face the day, strode out meaningfully to his Lazy Boy and sat down.

What a view. Or rather, lack of a view. The truck had been parked at such an angle that Neville could hardly see any activity at all. Discomfited, he realised that he’d have to lean against the railing in order to see anything at all. What a bloody palaver! He saw something move out of the corner of his eye, and saw Nelly leaning against the doorframe of her new home. She looked his way, and waved. He tried to stare rigidly at a point to her left, but it didn’t seem to work, and she kept waving at him until he waved back. He thought her heard her laugh as she turned around and retreated into the darkness of her new home. Impertinence! thought Neville, shouldn’t have to wave back if I don’t want to, it’s my house! Anyway, what’s she got to laugh about?
There was a sudden and frantic revving, and in a spray of dust (new houses were all very well, but paved driveways were not) a 1978 Falcon XC Cobra V8 swung noisily out from behind the truck and tore off down the middle of the road.
‘What the devil…?’ Neville turned to his wife, who had run out onto the porch.
‘Who was that, love?’ The question that anyone who has missed anything asks of whoever witnessed it – the assumption being that the witness must clearly be in full possession of the facts, if not completely omniscient.
‘I only saw what you saw, woman,’ Neville looked at his wife with incredulity. As if he’d tell her anything, even if he had seen something else. As if he’d tell her that he had craved one of those cars since they rolled off the production line, and that he was equal parts jealous and excited that someone over the road had one. Of course, it was downright bloody irresponsible that you could behave like that on a public highway. Neville considered this for a moment – if he’d owned that car, he’d treat it with respect, a classic bit of engineering like that – but he also knew that if he ever got into the driver’s seat – and now that he knew someone who had one, the ‘if’ was melting into ‘when’ – the urge to do donuts would be almost irresistible.
It was too exciting to sit back down. But the Cobra might return at any moment, and Neville’s feet felt that familiar pull from the ground, the force that said ‘You’re not going anywhere, my son,’ and invariably kept him there until a decision had been reached. Frozen in time, like a Greek statue, and frozen in indecisiveness, like nobody but Neville Jones, he stood; not even brushing flies away as Bean gave him a peck on the cheek and announced she was going to visit Nelly.
‘And there are some sandwiches on the table if you want some. I’ll be back in time for dinner, okay, love?’
Sandwiches. Neurons fired, muscles contracted and relaxed, and Neville walked awkwardly into the kitchen.
Compared to the porch, the kitchen was refreshingly cool, which reminded Neville of something. Beer, that’s refreshingly cool, innit, thought Neville, and he grabbed a bottle from the fridge on his way to the table. Give myself an appetite for lunch.
Appetite gradually emerging, Neville slumped further into the chair, and turned up one corner of the sandwich to see if it was worth eating – processed chicken and tomato sauce. That’s alright, innit, thought Neville. Save me going down the pub for a pie. Too hot to walk today anyway, he thought as he heard the Cobra return loudly, that guy’s got the right idea. Love a coldie though. Neville leaned back in his chair to open the fridge door, and looked into the welcoming glow of the fridge. The beers were at the back of the bottom shelf, it would be a challenge, but it wasn’t impossible. Neville was balanced precariously on his chair, only the back two legs maintaining any contact with the ground, his right leg sticking out to provide some semblance of balance. He twisted to his left a little more… hand outreached like Adam... further… further… so near and yet so far. Well this is bloody ridiculous, he thought, stupid woman should have put ‘em nearer the front, where a bloke can get to ‘em! Neville conveniently blocked from his mind the memory of filling up the fridge with beer himself the previous day. Just a bit further now. Neville leaned an inch too far to be comfortable, and as his fingers closed around the long necked bottle, in his peripheral vision he caught sight of – upside down from this angle – the shadow of a human form. He toppled backwards, and sprawled onto the floor, beer in hand.
‘Afternoon,’ said the shadow.
Home | Chapter Three

1.11.01

Chapter 1

As the dust trail from the truck grew larger and closer, Neville Jones leaned back in his Lazy Boy and closed his eyes. Soon, the rumble of the approaching vehicle became distinct, and unbearably loud, and Neville realised that if he didn’t get up soon and lean on the porch balcony, he might miss the new neighbours moving in, and he couldn’t have that.
He stood up and stretched, the bones in his neck cracking unnervingly as he tilted his head. Opening the back door, he leaned one elbow on the fridge, and fanning his face with his old fishing hat, shouted to Bea for a cold beer.
A minute later, a cold beer was thrust into his hand, and he was scolded for not walking the four metres to the fridge himself. Neville looked up at his wife.
‘Thanks, darl,’ He didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d been leaning on the fridge when he called her. ‘Have you seen the commotion?’ He nodded at their once perfect pastoral view, two new houses that stood awkwardly on what used to be their neighbour’s field.
The truck by now, had pulled up outside one of the houses, and three removal men were battling with large and unwieldy pieces of furniture in the heat. Hidden until now, a tiny black woman was bouncing backward and forward, issuing instructions to the workers. Bea came out onto the porch, and leaned next to Neville.
'So these are our new neighbours, love? Ooh, I like that dresser... very pretty.' Bea craned her neck to get a better view, as the truck, tardis-like, was slowly emptied of its contents.
‘Mmmh,’ nodded Neville. ‘Though it only looks like there’s one person moving in… Still, at least with no kids, it’ll be quiet, eh love?’
Bea looked down at her husband. ‘Ah, I miss the kids, but. Well, we’re having a bake off at Valerie’s in a bit, so I’d better finish the carrot cake…’ She bustled back into the kitchen. ‘Can you get your own lunch?’
‘Mmmh,’ and then, thinking better of it; ‘Yeah.’
The voice came back through the flyscreen, worn with years of care, ‘Well I’ve made you some sandwiches anyway!’ and with that, he heard the door slam.

Right, down for some serious neighbourhood watching. Almost midday, and a hot one. Another cold beer, and she’ll be right, thought Neville, idly wondering what might be in his sandwiches and if there were any pies in the fridge.
The truck almost empty, he could see the guys over the road wiping sweat from their brows. Glad I’m not doing that, he thought, dusty work. It was January, and it wouldn’t show any signs of cooling down for a few weeks. There was a north wind blowing, and it whipped up little whorls of dust around the workers.

The little woman bustled around, moving plants, smaller boxes and unidentified treasures from her car.

Watching all this productivity was exhausting, Neville decided, so he flipped the Lazy Boy the closest he could get to horizontal, and settled down for a snooze, launching his empty bottle onto the dog laying by his side.

A cough, and then nothing. And then a tap on the shoulder. Neville opened his eyes to see a stout, stately looking woman of about fifty smiling down at him.
‘Ah, now, ‘d I wake you up? Sleepin’ beauty!’ The woman laughed, as Neville grudgingly sat upright. Her laugh was deep and harmonious, and her accent was American.
‘Just having a snooze is all,’ he replied curtly. ‘And I suppose you’re the lady just moved in over the road, yeah?’
‘Thass right,’ the lady beamed. ‘Barbelo, Nelly Barbelo.’
A fleeting image of Jane Fonda flashed before Neville’s eyes. ‘Barbarella..?’
‘Nelly. Barbelo. You,’ Nelly enunciated, ‘can call me Nelly. And, yes, I am the lady who juss moved in over the road.’

‘Is this man bothering you?’ A voice from the kitchen doorway. It was Bea. She smiled and held out her hand to Nelly, who looked at it for a second, and then shook it heartily. ‘I’m Bea. And this here’s Neville. We noticed you moving in this morning.’
‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Nelly Barbelo. This a beautiful place you got here!’ Nelly exclaimed, looking around the porch at the hanging baskets, wind chimes, and then back down at Neville and his chair, his dog and his crate full of empty bottles. There was a merest hint of wrinkled nose, and then a smile like sunshine.
Bea picked up the cake from inside the kitchen. ‘Carrot. Cake. Carrot cake, that is. Would you like some? And I’m just about to make a pot of tea. Would you like some? Tea?’ She marched backwards, cake still in hand, to the kitchen. ‘I came third, Nev!’ She shouted through, ‘Audrey used a special icing contraption, and, well, you know Marge – she has the gift…’
Nelly followed Bea into the kitchen, feeling that there might be more of a rapport with this neighbour than the man in the chair. Bea was already ferociously slicing up the carrot cake, with a precision that suggested a career in catering, or at the very least, a large family.
Bea motioned to Nelly to sit down in the faded but immaculate kitchen. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
Nelly warmed to Bea straight away, they’d both had a lifetime of looking after others and found it impossible to stop. Over tea and cake, first pleasantries, anecdotes and then secrets were swapped. Neville, on the other hand, was a different matter.

Neville, having watched the removal men until he fell asleep, had, once the two women had gone inside, stayed in his chair with the occasional beer and his dog, making sure that trucks went down the road without incident.
He wondered what the other people would be like. The other house had been sold for longer than the one Nelly had moved into, and to his chagrin, he had missed seeing both buyers, despite putting in some serious hours on the porch. One morning, he’d looked out the window to see the real estate agent covering the second FOR SALE sign with a giant SOLD sticker, and that was the end of that. Still, how on earth it could have possibly got past him was a mystery.

The kettle boiled once again, and this time Nelly got up to make the pot. Bea was a generous woman and Nelly was beginning to feel like it hadn’t been such a bad idea to come here. Of course, she’d had reservations, and nobody moves to the country these days, but she was getting older now, and since she’d moved from the States, she hadn’t really settled anywhere else, and this dusty little place was starting to feel oddly comfortable.
‘Did you need a hand?’
Nelly snapped out of her reverie. ‘Hmm?’
‘A hand, dear. With all your furniture. Neville. I can volunteer Neville if you’d like, and Terry -‘ she pointed to the family portrait on the old dresser, at the man standing behind Neville, the man who looked like Neville must have looked in 1973 – ‘Terry’ll be around later probably – he could give you a hand too, if you’d like.’ Bea smiled expectantly at her.
‘Ah, lord, no, I’ll be fine, girl! Why, ‘s what I’m paying those fine strong men for, helped me out today. Just gonna go sort out a few things, the kinda stuff I got to do, the kinda stuff you want to do yourself, ya know?’ Nelly grinned at her. Bea nodded slightly, wondering what it must be like to live a life with privacy.
‘Right, girl, I’d better scoot back over there – I got a lot of sorting out to do! So I’ll see you tomorrow now, for a coffee? Juss come over anytime,’ Nelly glanced through the net curtains at the inert being in the chair, ‘cause I’m an early riser! Now you take care, ya hear?’
Bea, swept up in the idea that someone had found her to be more than just useful for domestic chores, beamed back, nodding. Nelly opened the flyscreen door and swept out, patting Neville on the head, and leaving Bea to contemplate the vividity of her muumuu.

In bed that night, Neville and Bea both lay silent and awake in the darkness, listening to the sound of a distant thunderstorm. They both lay in twin beds, a spatial modification which had eventuated after the birth of their second child, Norelle, in 1977. It wasn’t that Norelle had been a hideous experiment of a child, quite the opposite. Put simply, Neville hadn’t liked being awoken as Bea got up to look after the baby in the night, and Bea had preferred the tiny hands of Norelle, aged three months, grasping her index finger as if for dear life, to the calloused hands of Neville. For a couple that had loved but not been in love for the best part of twenty-five years, twin beds had seemed like the best option, and, in the most comfortable and familiar of ways, it suited them both down to the ground.
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