David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
Thank you Lynda, she was someone quite special and I dedicated it to her along with all the others. Regards, David.
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David Weaver
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David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
Thank you now I'll sleep happy. Regards, David.
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
Thanks Jean, but for you they would still be tucked away in my laptop. Regards, David.
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
THE OLD STONE BRIDGE
By David Weaver ©
I gazed from the wall of the old stone bridge,
By David Weaver ©
I gazed from the wall of the old stone bridge,
into the river below.
Thoughts wandering back to when I was young,
just a lovesick youth full of show.
I remembered the stepping stones, waiting,
as they had for a million feet.
Someone had placed them at the time of Christ,
where the five local clans used to meet.
Now an old man looking back on my life,
I see more than the ferny rocks.
Not only the river all crystal clear,
but a girl with the auburn locks.
She stood mid stream on the largest stone,
and waved for her lover to see.
He standing there on the old stone bridge,
for the lover she waved to, was me.
Her lovely sweet face, a sad gentle smile,
I see it as if it’s today.
Crossed half of the stones to meet her,
kissed without one word to say.
We walked together towards the near bank,
wild primroses flanking its path.
Lay in the sun as lovers will do,
planning for days now long past.
Does she remember those times long ago,
when true love was doomed to failure?
For she met a man with a big red car,
after I’d run away to Australia.
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘Pretty Girl’
David Weaver ©
Today she’d told him it was her time to go, not by voice but through the message in her sad eyes. It was finally time to leave this place, and Charley made everything ready, but this was to be a different parting for he was going with her, to continue their next voyage together.
He thought of the time so long ago when, in this very place, he’d first seen her as a child. It was the season when the monsoonal rain rushed towards the mighty cliffs, like today, roaring its way through the high valley its creamy white foam brushing aside all in it’s path until it reached the waterfall so high it launched the river into space as if driven by the mighty force of an angry mountain.
Charley had laid claim to Pretty Girl as only a man can, and her father had been happy to hand her over to such a fine hunter. The old man knew she would never go hungry with him and his hunting spear, also his grandchildren would be strong and skilled in the ways of the bush.
Charley smiled as he remembered the old man asking him not to beat her with a stick too often; for she was a good daughter and the hunter kept his promise to him. No stick ever crossed her back, and her belly always had plenty of food in it, as well as a grandchild to make the tribe happy.
Pretty Girl had always walked behind in his shadow so he could freely face the dangers of the bush where he had plenty of space to throw his mighty spear or swing a club, while she foraged for bush food, and taught the ways of the harsh land to their children.
But now those days were over and it was time to go. Charley picked up his spear for the last time, and stood before her. She looked into his face and nodded; for now she was ready. He untied the strong leg sinews of a kangaroo from around his waist and bound her arm to his, leaving some slack he bent down and picked her up and started the lonely trek along the stony track towards the high lip of the waterfall. No words passed between them for none were needed, and when he reached the roaring edge of the cauldron of falling water they marvelled at the beautiful rainbow that had been there for all their lives. Charley held Pretty Girl closely to his chest and stepped out onto the rainbow, while downriver the crocodiles were waiting to take them onto their next journey together.
End
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘The Equinox’
David Weaver ©
Being a man steeped in the world of old time democracy Ticker, rather than immediately sentencing me to stand in the corner until my face assumed the shape of a wedge of cheese, gave me the opportunity to think about it overnight and return the following day with the correct answer no matter how pathetic the attempt.
Coming from an intellectual family, of repute, I went home armed with the knowledge that all would be well for in my humble home was the untapped knowledge of pure scholarship, just waiting to be released on to an unsuspecting world.
Granny said The Equinox was a thick bandage, with oodles of goo on it, which was heated up to boiling point and then slapped onto an aggressive carbuncle to draw out the puss. The louder the victim screamed, in agony, the more good it was supposed to be doing them.
Granddad laughed fit to burst, at this stupidity, and said it was a type of wild bird seed they used to catch the Yellow Bellied Sap Sucker, a well known wren that flew backwards to keep the dust out of its eyes and was now becoming almost extinct due to the lack of sandy desert surrounding Aston Park.
Mum said this was a load of old cods-wallop because it was a well known fact that the real Equinox was a German delicacy served up during the cold weather. Its main ingredient consisted of offal, and beans, with as many herbs as could be found to take away the terrible taste of garlic.
Dad said they were all wrong, and should have known better. He said it was, without a shadow of doubt, whale vomit that had been washed up on the best beaches around Scunthorpe. It was worth a fortune, to anyone finding it, because it was used in the manufacture of the finest French perfumes purchased only by very wealthy film stars and the spoiled wives of politicians.
‘The Equinox’/ Weaver 2
My brother Charley, who knows everything, said we were all wrong and instead of confusing the issue suggested we check out the dictionary. I found this the most ridiculous suggestion of all because if you
can’t spell a word there’s no way you’ll find it in the dictionary, and none of us knew what the first three letters were anyway.
The dictionary was replaced, due to an uneven floor, back under the table leg where it belonged and we sat around deep in thought to think up our next concerted plan of attack.
‘I know,’ said my father, ‘I’ll go and ask Taffy Jones, he now spends all his spare time in the pub sharing his hard earned knowledge with anyone one who wants to listen, but he used to be a teacher so he’ll know for sure. He took off like a thirsty man from a Siberian salt factory, and returned a few hours later looking lost and bewildered.
‘Well,’ we asked expectantly, ‘what’s the real story?’
Dad sadly shook his head, ‘He’s losing his marbles, gone quite mad in his old age.’
‘Why what happened?’ I asked, disappointed.
He slumped into his chair like a half empty bag of coal, ‘Well, all he said was , ‘The Equinox’ is the time when the sun crosses the plane of the earth’s equator, making night and day all over the earth of equal time.”
‘He’s gone off his rocker, for sure, and should be locked up before he does someone a mischief.’
End
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘Footsteps in the sand’
David Weaver ©
Remember walking through the desert of life,
four footsteps cutting deep in the sand.
Far into the distance stretches a lifetime of love,
as we marched boldly on hand in hand.
When only two footsteps were all you could see,
as I strode into the evening light.
Those were the times when I carried you,
as I kissed your sweet lips through the night.
In the earth you can see where I twisted and turned,
whereas steadfast and strong stood you.
These times marked where you had a child,
while I circled around, useless too.
There’s a halt in the steps near the third child,
a cross marks a lonely space.
The mirage lake in the landscape,
as our tears marked her final place.
The footsteps faltered for quite a few miles,
but then they grew stronger with time.
The love of a lost one gives strength in the end,
sad eyes drying up, yours and mine.
Now we are nearing the end of our walk,
the footsteps seem shortened with age.
So kiss me my darling while we have the chance,
before we must turn the last page.
Let my still eager lips brush your lovely face,
let’s turn around and look back.
See how the footsteps now vanish from sight,
as we come to the end of our track?
End
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘My Secret Place’
mountain ranges topped with snow. David Weaver ã
Have I told you of my secret place,
a land that is full of dreams?
Been exploring it for many years,
much shorter than that it seems.
I’ve never told of this secret,
it was only mine to share.
For I feared the telling of it,
would bring other eyes to stare.
With crystal waterfalls aplenty,
where brimming trout streams flow.
In the valleys flowers greet the sun,
Dinosaurs roam thought long since gone,
I’ll show you the cave that leads to it,
With you I now share my secret place,
See jagged rocks and wooded slopes,
hear the bellbirds as they sing?
In that rock face over there,
are carved stories from the past
Memorise them before you leave,
write them down to make them last.
You can wander in my secret place,
but watch where you leave your tread.
Walk gently over its grassy slopes,
for I’ll lie there when I’m dead.
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘Two Stars’
David Weaver ©
Have you felt my hands upon you,
in the valley of no return?
Where the wind blew from forever,
in the place where the deserts burn.
When you sighed in your contentment,
at our gentle act of love?
As the stars showed their approval,
from their watching place above.
Did you turn your face to search for me,
in the times gone in between?
Like the journeys when I looked for you,
but not once your face I’d seen.
A thousand years have passed my way,
but at last I feel you here.
Your names carved into granite now,
in our secret place quite near.
No matter what comes tomorrow,
you must have heard my call.
And a million years may pass again,
but the granite will tell it all.
One day they’ll come across it,
as they search for signs of love.
But only we will know the truth,
just two stars up above.
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
Hello Young Fella, as a writer you will know the meaning of 'blood sweat and tears', but if someone in a hundred years time says, 'Who the hell was Rupert, David and where was Aston?' it will all be worth while' believe me. Thanks for your support the people running this site are gold in the overall scheme of our history, Regards, David.
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘Thanks for the Memories’
By David Weaver ©
He was my best mate you see. One of those blokes you get along with from the very first meeting, a born comedian with the world as his stage, and we the audience clapping enthusiastically. He was less aggressive than me, and more inclined to put his point of view across without getting upset. Nature’s gentleman, most said, but to me he was just my mate a man to be trusted without a moments hesitation.
Every Saturday we’d have a couple of beers in his shed and put the world to rights whilst half listening to the radio as out football team was massacred by anyone they came up against. Over the years the Carlton Football Club had had its fair share of glory but in later times we suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune as Shakespeare must have done with the Stratford on Avon Rovers so many years ago. In summer we followed the cricket but Australia’s world dominance made us feel almost sorry for the other teams trying to beat us.
There was one time when we talked of death and made a pact that if either of us ever reached the stage when there was no hope for us the other would make sure there’d be no suffering. That prolonged treatment to keep the patient alive was kept to a minimum with the final gesture of a friend in the purest sense of the word, after receiving the wink and a nod of consent. We both knew it would never happen but we promised each other anyway, shook hands on it, and then continued on with our crusade to laugh a lot and enjoy whatever was thrown at us, for good or evil.
When he became seriously ill we still met each week and I sadly watched him fade away to no more than a skeleton, for cancer does not distinguish good people from bad. We still laughed a lot at our silly jokes like the time he broke his teeth and went down to the local undertaker and asked him for a loan of a set of dentures from one of the many he kept in a drawer previously removed from the towns corpses. Told him he could have them back when the time came to bury him. I laughed at that one but the laughter masked a terrible sadness.
Near the end he reminded me of our pact and said he would understand if I didn’t have the will to carry it out. Reckoned he wouldn’t have been able to do it for me either and not to feel so bad about it.
I went to sit with him in his final hours as he lapsed in and out of consciousness but he couldn’t speak to me. During a more lucid moment his gaze met mine and he nodded his head with just the flicker of a smile at the corner of his sagging mouth, and then he winked.
My best mate’s been dead for three years now because we had a pact, you see, and a nod of his head and the wink of an eye left me with no alternative for after all, that’s what mates are for isn’t it?
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
Thanks Mike, it's worth the effort when someone enjoys what's been submitted. Regards, David.
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘The Chef’
David Weaver ã
His kitchen smelled of fine rare herbs with bundles of garlic and onions hanging from large hooks driven into the red gum ceiling beams. Olive oil and spicy vinegar seeped their way into hot chillies, cucumbers and ginger, stored in odd shaped bottles along a large wooden shelf. Their delicious smells, mingling with the distinct aroma of smoked hams and home made continental sausages.
In his more famous days, before the curse of whisky had enslaved him, Cedric had cooked in some of the finest hotels in the world, but as his liking for the bottle increased, so did his slide down the ladder of success begin. Now this master of an ancient art was the chef at the Drover’s Dog, the finest hotel, as well as the only hotel, in Mullockgoolie. .
Cedric was a good man, even when in the grip of the bottle. He was small, and as thin as a wire cable stretched on a strainer post. His face had a cherubic look about it, which turned into a sudden grin at the slightest opportunity. His legs were thin and bony and at the end of each were the flattest feet ever seen on either a man or Yeti. He didn’t walk, he waddled.
Many is the time I have watched with amazement as he traversed his kitchen, a razor sharp butcher’s knife clutched in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other, turning out his exquisite works of culinary delight.
His large bull terrier, Bubbles, always sat in the corner watching Cedric’s antics with an air of false boredom written across its stupid face, but even he grinned in delight at some of the antics of his master.
Lying next to Bubbles, his face a mask of pure hatred was Boris the cat. His nature was so mean, a Tasmanian tiger would have been proved a wimp if the two had been fighting over the same carcass.
The night of the Mullockgoolie Football Club end-of-season festivities, was looked upon as the highlight in our yearly calendar, and this year more so, because a premiership had been won against our hated enemy, the Bulla Bulla Magpies.
The only person who looked upon these nights with some concern was Sergeant Jenkins, who invariably invited ten or twelve police friends over to coincide with our celebrations. They usually held a quiet barbecue behind the police station in anticipation of the riot to come. They were seldom disappointed.
Cedric was given the task of catering for the event, but was not overly enthusiastic about doing it. The only menu he was ever given, despite his constant requests for a change, was spaghetti Bolognese and pizza marinara. This exotic feast was washed down with as many eighteen-gallon kegs of beer that could be accommodated before the police moved in. Not the menu for a master chef to show off his talents or stretch his considerable artistic imagination. The reason for the confined menu was the homesick Italian club president who ruled with a rod of iron, and firmly believed he still lived in Calabria where he had once belonged to the rather exclusive brotherhood of that region.
I was always called to assist Cedric on this the night of nights. The manager of the Drover’s Dog believed I exerted a certain amount of control over his wayward chef, but this in fact was untrue. He was his own man and brooked no interference, least of all from me, but as I was also the secretary of the football club, felt it my responsibility to see Cedric through as best I could, with the least amount of whisky.
The night finally arrived and was in full swing, with the food being consumed at a frenzied pace. Poor Cedric was at full stretch reaching for a consoling drink, as well as trying to keep the food coming. I was flat out opening kegs of beer, and pouring furiously for a bunch of very thirsty footballers seemingly trained on blotting paper sandwiches.
Suddenly a quiet lull settled over the gathered crowd, and into the clubrooms walked twenty Bulla Bulla Magpies. Their tattoos laid side by side would have covered the Mullockgoolie bowling green, and I hadn’t seen so much hair since the invading bikies from New South Wales had wrecked the Drover’s Dog in a sudden fit of youthful enthusiasm.
‘You go and tell them to leave,’ said the President to me, out of the corner of his mouth, ‘you have a way with words.’
I walked towards the Magpies somewhat reluctantly. Death comes in many guises but I never imagined mine would be on such a lovely night as this. Just as I had started to accept the inevitable, I noticed in the shadows Sergeant Jenkins with twelve very large policemen. They walked determinedly towards me, but I pretended not to see them. My swagger, meanwhile, became more noticeable, and the night I was prepared to take on twenty Magpies is still talked about in the hallowed bars of the Drover’s Dog.
The Sergeant fronted me and ordered thirty-two beers as if he’d been doing so all of his life. He then turned abruptly towards the Mullockgoolie Football President and walked towards him.
Mr Vitorrio Spalini turned a little pale and wondered if those strange looking plants he’d been growing in the state forest had been discovered.
‘We have come to congratulate you and the team for winning The Flag,’ said Sergeant Jenkins in an understatement of friendly banter, ‘It’s time we helped you celebrate your magnificent win, and when we saw the Magpies approaching to congratulate you, we decided to join them.’
The Magpies shuffled their feet in embarrassment at this strange turn of events. The last thing they had gate crashed the party for, was to offer congratulations to an old foe, but their guns had been spiked by a very smart policeman.
To my amazement, everyone started shaking hands like brothers not seen in twenty years. Slapping backs and laughing as if those odd nights spent in the cells over the past decade had never happened.
But now Cedric and I had a small problem. Thirty-two extra mouths to feed would push our menu to breaking point. I quickly called Father O’Riley to come over and take care of the kegs, and headed into the kitchen to advise Cedric of the bad news.
Without missing a beat, he took a huge swig from a large bottle of whisky already almost empty, and stared at the big pot of Bolognese sauce bubbling away on the old wood stove. He reached down unsteadily into the bottom cupboard of an old fashioned sideboard, and pulled out ten large tins of dog food. Opening these quickly, he tipped the contents into the Bolognese sauce, stirring furiously as he did so. Stopping only occasionally for a large swig from the nearby bottle.
That’ll keep them happy,’ he said looking pleased with himself at his quick thinking.
‘Not bloody likely,’ I thought, wondering about the reaction from the gathered multitude when they tasted his evil concoction. I also made a mental note, that no matter how the evening turned out, I would stick to eating the pizza marinara.
The newly fortified Bolognese sauce, when placed on the servery, was consumed with much enthusiasm. Second and third helpings were bolted down as though Arctic wolves were feasting on the remains of a felled moose. Even the president had two servings, with compliments to the chef as an added bonus.
I must admit I tipped off Father O’Riley about not eating the suspect Bolognese. Not for any other reason than that he is my mate; too much religion for me but nonetheless still my mate. We gorged ourselves on the delicious pizza and to hell with everyone else, a gourmet feed like that would have been wasted on men who thought a pie and chips was the ultimate in dining out.
Towards morning with the bodies of the victims lying around in various states of near death, I discovered Cedric lying under the table in the kitchen. He was in pure heaven. The night had once more been a success and he was happy. No one had been arrested, mainly because the policemen who were there to do the job couldn’t scratch themselves. All in all a good night was had by all.
Cedric suddenly sat up, a deathly look on his face. Then gathering all of his strength he grinned at me.
I smiled back with a certain amount of sympathy and said, ‘Poor old Bubbles is going to be upset with you today for using his dog food.’
‘Don’t worry about bloody Bubbles,’ said Cedric looking serious. ‘I’ve got plenty of dog food left in the cupboard, but it’s my cat Boris I’m worried about. He will tear me to shreds, when he finds out I used the last twenty tins of cat food on the pizza marinara.’
END
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘Bluey’
David Weaver.ã
In 1961, the dense bush on the outskirts of Darwin, was infested with snakes and as my dog was madly exploring in the long grass I went after her for they often become victims of their own stupidity in country like that
Whilst searching I discovered a row of graves, carefully hidden away where no one would discover them. They bore weather worn inscriptions but I was unable to read them.
Soon I became aware of a man watching me from the thick scrub and waved to him, but he simply stared at me.
After finding the dog I returned to the graves, and started pulling the weeds from them for I’ve always felt the need to keep the dead as well looked after as possible. Maybe it’s because I expect the same care given to me, but I suspect my closed eyes will not notice one way or the other.
After completing enough work to ease my conscience I wandered back to camp, again waving to the man who was still staring. He did not return the greeting, but his gaze never left me.
The following day I returned to the cemetery, and once again the man appeared from nowhere staring, just staring. He was starting to make me nervous so I walked over to him to find out what his problem was.
He squared his shoulders aggressively and said, ‘Should’ve shot you, had my gun lined up; but Bluey talked me out of it.’
Thank you Bluey, I thought, wondering why a man was allowed to wander around shooting people whenever he felt like it.
‘Why did you want to shoot me?
‘Because I don’t like you, but Bluey talked me out of it so you’re safe enough now.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about it, then maybe we can sort out your problem?’
‘You caused the problem when you started to tend those graves, but Bluey saved you so you’d best leave it at that.’
‘What work do you do?’ I asked, hoping to unravel the mystery.
‘Don’t have a job; the doctor’s reckon I’ve got a screw loose.’
I wasn’t about to disagree for I reckoned they might be right, but continued, ‘What work did you do?’
‘Railways, built bridges and laid tracks, that sort of thing.’
‘Is that where you met Bluey?’
‘He was my mate.’
I started to pull out the weeds, and as he watched asked him to help.
‘Piss off,’ he said, savagely.
‘Tell me about the railways, it must have been interesting.’
He bent down as if it was the hardest job he’d ever been asked to do, and pulled a weed from one of the graves; his bottom lip trembling as if he were about to cry.
‘It was very interesting,’ he said slowly. ‘The government sent me on an overseas junket, and I managed to land a job on the railways. If you were stupid enough to slacken off, the ganger would stick a bayonet through you, or shoot you like a dog. Then of course there was the swampy accommodation, half a bowl of rice a day and a rat if you were lucky enough to catch one. Caught a cat once and we thought all our birthdays had come at once. Then of course there were the mosquitoes, berry berry and tropical ulcers to liven things up a bit. If we wanted some light entertainment we could always give some cheek to one of the guards and get half beaten to death with a bamboo pole.’
I continued to pull weeds. ‘What about Bluey?’
‘Greatest man ever to walk the earth, when I was sick he carried me around and did all the work for if we fell behind with our quota, the Japs would shoot us. He gave me half his rice ration to keep me alive. How he survived working for two and eating half rations is a mystery; he was so thin you could hardly see the poor ........
‘He once said that he wouldn’t survive as long as me, because he couldn’t hate like I could. Said if he died first he’d stand at my right shoulder for as long as I needed him though.’
We pulled more weeds ‘What happened to Bluey, did he survive?’
‘No, he caught a real bad fever. Then it was my turn to carry him, but as he said he couldn’t hate like me. I managed to keep him alive for about a month then one-day as he lay cradled in my arms this ....... came up and raised his rifle. I threw myself across his body, but the guard shot both of us. The bullet grazed me, but Bluey just gave a moan and it was all over. He kept his promise though for he’s been standing at my right shoulder ever since and I’m beginning to feel guilty because I can’t let him go but perhaps it’s as well; he saved your life that’s for sure.’
When I went to the graves again, there was a splash of colour about fifty yards away into the bush a pathway of flattened grass led towards it, so I walked over to investigate. Imagine my surprise when I found another grave. It had been cleared of all weeds and resting on it was a little bunch of fragrant frangipani flowers. I was staring at them, deep in thought, when a voice behind me said ‘They buried him here first, but they found it was too rocky so they put the rest over there.’ The man nodded towards our regular site.
‘The flowers look good,’ I said, ‘it finishes off the job nicely.’
‘Yes, Bluey said it was a good idea.’ He turned abruptly, and walked away, but then came back. ‘You know I kept Bluey’s grave secret so nobody would find him. I let the weeds grow over it and in Burma that didn’t take too long. Thought he would like that, hidden away where no one knew where he was.’
The following week he was waiting at the entrance to the gravesite. As I walked towards him he waved, and surprised me by shaking hands warmly, and it was then I noticed something different about the site, all the graves had gone and the ground left vacant.
I felt a rush of anger at the desecration, until he placed a restraining hand on my arm and said, ‘They’ve taken them home to their families, it happened two days ago.’
‘How does Bluey feel about it? I asked.
‘I think he was pleased, because he’s gone away now.’
I smiled, ‘Fancy a beer?’
He nodded, ‘I reckon Bluey would have had one with you as well.’
We drove to the nearest hotel and, surrounded by our own silence, raised our drinks to an absent friend. As we lowered the glasses a drunken voice called out from across the bar. ‘Hey Digger’, I see they've dug up those Jap Pilot’s that were shot down while bombing Darwin. Took them back to Japan for reburial they reckon, should have dumped the bastards off the bloody wharf, for the crocodiles to feed on.’
Dedicated to Jack. You never forgave them, Mate, but somehow your stories went a long way in helping me to understand the pain. I wrote this true story, many years ago and if it’s not acceptable for the site, please trash it. Kind regards, DKW
David Weaver.ã
In 1961, the dense bush on the outskirts of Darwin, was infested with snakes and as my dog was madly exploring in the long grass I went after her for they often become victims of their own stupidity in country like that
Whilst searching I discovered a row of graves, carefully hidden away where no one would discover them. They bore weather worn inscriptions but I was unable to read them.
Soon I became aware of a man watching me from the thick scrub and waved to him, but he simply stared at me.
After finding the dog I returned to the graves, and started pulling the weeds from them for I’ve always felt the need to keep the dead as well looked after as possible. Maybe it’s because I expect the same care given to me, but I suspect my closed eyes will not notice one way or the other.
After completing enough work to ease my conscience I wandered back to camp, again waving to the man who was still staring. He did not return the greeting, but his gaze never left me.
The following day I returned to the cemetery, and once again the man appeared from nowhere staring, just staring. He was starting to make me nervous so I walked over to him to find out what his problem was.
He squared his shoulders aggressively and said, ‘Should’ve shot you, had my gun lined up; but Bluey talked me out of it.’
Thank you Bluey, I thought, wondering why a man was allowed to wander around shooting people whenever he felt like it.
‘Why did you want to shoot me?
‘Because I don’t like you, but Bluey talked me out of it so you’re safe enough now.’
‘Why don’t you tell me about it, then maybe we can sort out your problem?’
‘You caused the problem when you started to tend those graves, but Bluey saved you so you’d best leave it at that.’
‘What work do you do?’ I asked, hoping to unravel the mystery.
‘Don’t have a job; the doctor’s reckon I’ve got a screw loose.’
I wasn’t about to disagree for I reckoned they might be right, but continued, ‘What work did you do?’
‘Railways, built bridges and laid tracks, that sort of thing.’
‘Is that where you met Bluey?’
‘He was my mate.’
I started to pull out the weeds, and as he watched asked him to help.
‘Piss off,’ he said, savagely.
‘Tell me about the railways, it must have been interesting.’
He bent down as if it was the hardest job he’d ever been asked to do, and pulled a weed from one of the graves; his bottom lip trembling as if he were about to cry.
‘It was very interesting,’ he said slowly. ‘The government sent me on an overseas junket, and I managed to land a job on the railways. If you were stupid enough to slacken off, the ganger would stick a bayonet through you, or shoot you like a dog. Then of course there was the swampy accommodation, half a bowl of rice a day and a rat if you were lucky enough to catch one. Caught a cat once and we thought all our birthdays had come at once. Then of course there were the mosquitoes, berry berry and tropical ulcers to liven things up a bit. If we wanted some light entertainment we could always give some cheek to one of the guards and get half beaten to death with a bamboo pole.’
I continued to pull weeds. ‘What about Bluey?’
‘Greatest man ever to walk the earth, when I was sick he carried me around and did all the work for if we fell behind with our quota, the Japs would shoot us. He gave me half his rice ration to keep me alive. How he survived working for two and eating half rations is a mystery; he was so thin you could hardly see the poor ........
‘He once said that he wouldn’t survive as long as me, because he couldn’t hate like I could. Said if he died first he’d stand at my right shoulder for as long as I needed him though.’
We pulled more weeds ‘What happened to Bluey, did he survive?’
‘No, he caught a real bad fever. Then it was my turn to carry him, but as he said he couldn’t hate like me. I managed to keep him alive for about a month then one-day as he lay cradled in my arms this ....... came up and raised his rifle. I threw myself across his body, but the guard shot both of us. The bullet grazed me, but Bluey just gave a moan and it was all over. He kept his promise though for he’s been standing at my right shoulder ever since and I’m beginning to feel guilty because I can’t let him go but perhaps it’s as well; he saved your life that’s for sure.’
When I went to the graves again, there was a splash of colour about fifty yards away into the bush a pathway of flattened grass led towards it, so I walked over to investigate. Imagine my surprise when I found another grave. It had been cleared of all weeds and resting on it was a little bunch of fragrant frangipani flowers. I was staring at them, deep in thought, when a voice behind me said ‘They buried him here first, but they found it was too rocky so they put the rest over there.’ The man nodded towards our regular site.
‘The flowers look good,’ I said, ‘it finishes off the job nicely.’
‘Yes, Bluey said it was a good idea.’ He turned abruptly, and walked away, but then came back. ‘You know I kept Bluey’s grave secret so nobody would find him. I let the weeds grow over it and in Burma that didn’t take too long. Thought he would like that, hidden away where no one knew where he was.’
The following week he was waiting at the entrance to the gravesite. As I walked towards him he waved, and surprised me by shaking hands warmly, and it was then I noticed something different about the site, all the graves had gone and the ground left vacant.
I felt a rush of anger at the desecration, until he placed a restraining hand on my arm and said, ‘They’ve taken them home to their families, it happened two days ago.’
‘How does Bluey feel about it? I asked.
‘I think he was pleased, because he’s gone away now.’
I smiled, ‘Fancy a beer?’
He nodded, ‘I reckon Bluey would have had one with you as well.’
We drove to the nearest hotel and, surrounded by our own silence, raised our drinks to an absent friend. As we lowered the glasses a drunken voice called out from across the bar. ‘Hey Digger’, I see they've dug up those Jap Pilot’s that were shot down while bombing Darwin. Took them back to Japan for reburial they reckon, should have dumped the bastards off the bloody wharf, for the crocodiles to feed on.’
END
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
Thanks Mike you are very kind but I don't wish to offend anyone with my use of language. I'm rather new to the site and still feeling my way. Kind regards, David.
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘The Monsters of Mullockgoolie’
David Weaver ©
Sitting in the bar of ‘The Drover’s Dog’ with Fatso McGinty, is one of life’s pleasures. His collection of anecdotes about the ‘Monsters of Mullockgoolie’, are legendary. After all, he swears he stumbled across one near Misery Creek.
Fatso, the proud mortgagee of the ‘The Drover’s Dog’, was as usual spruiking about the monsters, supposedly haunting the nearby bushland since the Second World War.
‘It was huge,’ he said, opening his arms like a fisherman whose imagination had already moved into the realms of fantasy, ‘with wicked yellow eyes.’
‘Black Panther.’ I suggested helpfully, my voice full of sarcasm.
‘That’s it, a Black Panther! Those American airmen released their mascots when the war ended.’
I watched his face for the slightest sign of guilt. ‘Something always puzzles me haven’t you noticed?’ I asked.
He looked nervous. ‘Noticed what?’ he said, furiously polishing an empty glass.
I continued, ‘Isn’t it a coincidence that the sightings are always at the quietest time of the tourist season. Strange that. People flock into town by the thousands and it’s always a prominent businessperson, who sees them, with much to be gained from the increased tourist trade.’
He looked miserable, so I turned the screws a little tighter. ‘In 1997 Cyril the Newsagent saw one, a year later it was you. In 99 Henry from the Motel saw no less than four and then in 2000 Muriel from the pony club saw one killing a cow. Last year one supposedly bounded up Main Street, just as Freddie Watson from ‘Exciting Bus Tours’, staggered out of this very bar, blind drunk. If I remember correctly, even you didn’t believe that one as Freddie roared up Main Street in his crowded bus full of terrified Japanese tourists.’
‘Pure coincidence,’ he muttered quietly. ‘But promise me something anyway?’
‘Promise what?’
‘Keep your cynicism to yourself it would set our tourist industry back twenty years, believe me.’
I slapped the bar counter triumphantly, ‘So you did make it up you bunch of crooks, scared witless in case I blow the whistle.’
‘It’s all true about the Americans,’ said Fatso defensively. ‘I heard it off a farmer, who’d been told by the mate of the American keeper’s brother.’
‘Sure, and after fifty years of inbreeding what do you reckon is out there?’
He looked serious. ‘Giant Black Panthers. It’s a known fact; only the biggest and strongest would have survived.’
Continuing, I said, ‘If you really want to make a killing out of those tourists, why don’t you do the job properly, I have an idea that would be the talk of Australia for years to come.’
He studied me suspiciously. The bait was carefully laid; all I had to do was make sure he swallowed it.
‘I don’t admit the stories aren’t true,’ he said cautiously, ‘but The Mullockgoolie Tourist Bureau would be interested in anything that would boost the town’s trade.’
Grinning at his pathetic attempts to con me I smiled, but after all it is my town too so why leave the professional planning to a bunch of incompetent amateurs.
I continued, ‘After the next sighting you will advise the newspapers, television and radio stations, and we’ll organise the biggest search party ever seen in these parts. I’ll be the coordinator providing you promise to leave all the details to me; that way I can guarantee you one a hundred per cent success. My meagre expenses can be cut out here in the bar, over the next two or three years.’
He listened with one ear, his own greed missing my expense's trap, ‘I don’t expect it will ever happen.’ he said, ‘but if there’s another panther report I’ll remember your offer.’
By a strange coincidence, the evening’s TV news reported two monsters pulling down a full-grown bullock. Councillor Mabel Bellingham from the continental bakery; was walking along the river when it happened. She was so terrified by the ferocity of the attack; she had to be revived with a bottle of brandy, kindly donated by Fatso at cost.
. I watched the news with great interest, my busy mind already making plans. Plans that would make our isolated town the centre of the universe, and my bar credit safe in the years to come.
Sorting through my video film collection I came across an old MGM classic, the one with the roaring lion at the introduction. I let the tape run awhile then recorded the lion, thirty times at various noise levels, until I had fifteen minutes of a pride of big cats in a feeding frenzy.
Satisfied with the preparations, I picked up the recorder and wandered off to ‘The Drover’s Dog’, to wait for the gullible tourists to arrive. There are those who would think me a rogue, but rogues give nothing in return whereas I hand out fresh-air and the promise of excitement, with the added bonus of prosperity to a group of honest, hard working local citizens.
The tourists came in droves: Buses, cars, motorcycles, even backpackers staggered into town, and local business did a roaring trade.
That evening we started our search, and it must have been around nightfall when we came to my carefully selected open area of bush, on the banks of the river: The sky was clear and a full moon cast dark shadows amongst the surrounding trees.
We made camp and those who were hungry, ate hot dogs and sipped rum. Sold at inflated prices, from a portable bar and barbecue that appeared from nowhere, courtesy of Fatso. Dry wood was collected from under a nearby cliff and soon the crowd sat around a roaring fire. To get the night off to a good start, I related the ghost story of Wild Jack Murphy, who haunted this particular clearing. I pretended it was just a story grown out of lies, with as much doubt in my voice to make their imagination’s take off on a journey of no return.
Wild Jack, according to legend, had been run over by a careering bullock cart over a hundred years back, and been sliced up into various bits and pieces. Now the poor man’s restless ghost, hopped amongst these very trees, clutching a severed leg, while his decapitated head watched the proceedings from the foot of an old tree stump nearby, calling out in a ghostly wail, ‘Help me find my other foot.’
It was at this time I wandered off into the bush with my hidden tape recorder. I placed it on a flat rock, switched it on, full volume then rejoined the search party with ten minutes talking time to fill in before the recording started.
We yarned and I steered the conversation around to the panthers. Even suggesting that yesterday’s sightings were caused by an over active imagination, coupled with too much grog, but they would have none of my cynicism. I was accused of being a vindictive fool, trying to damage the reputation of one of Mullockgoolie’s most upright citizens.
As the argument was getting heated, the nearby bush suddenly burst out into a deafening roar, as if all the lions in Africa had surrounded us. The affect was instantaneous. I’ve heard of blind panic driven by terror, but never could I have imagined such a wonderful reaction. One old man, who’d not walked for ten years without the aid of a stick, sprinted past a young newspaper reporter on a mountain bike. The walking stick remained where it had fallen, and his discarded shoes lay next to it. Fatso took off like a hyper active blowfly, leaving behind the evenings bar takings as well as all the hard liquor. He hadn’t moved so fast since his wife caught him giving Mavis Cunningham, mouth to mouth resuscitation on the snooker table, after she’d had one of her fainting spasms.
Pandemonium broke out as bodies crashed through the undergrowth in their bid to escape. By the time the last roar had passed into the night, I was alone in my own world of silence. Satisfied with the night’s work, I rolled out my swag and drifted off into the sleep of a man who had accomplished his goal.
Daylight found me greeting the dawn chorus, still lying near the dying embers of the campfire. I threw another log onto it, had a swagman’s breakfast, a .... a smoke and a good look round, and casually wandered off into the bush to retrieve my equipment. When I reached the recorder it was no longer sitting where I’d left it the night before, but was lying in the mud. That’s when I realised I was not alone. I quickly turned towards the strainer post half expecting the head of Wild Jack Murphy to be scowling at me. But not ten paces away, two black panthers as big as full-grown lions were staring at me, with the wickedest yellow eyes I have ever seen.
End
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘A PIECE OF CORD’
David Weaver. ©
I’ve met some beautiful women in my time but Mrs Widderson wasn’t one of them. She was what you’d call a bit of a character, with a quick wit that bubbled out of her short dumpling shaped body.
Her features were plain with hair that reminded me of a mohair rug; all wild and woolly. She was always happy though, no matter what time of day or place you met her. This good nature rubbed off on those with whom she came into contact, for how can you dislike someone whose jokes are always funnier than your own.
‘If life throws you a raw deal.’ she would say, ‘throw back plenty of laughter with a little bit of love and it will all work out for you in the end, you’ll see.’
Mrs Widderson, despite her name, never married. More surprising was the son she had when she was sixteen, the result of a frantic liaison with a young soldier on leave from the war. He died on the Kakoda Track not knowing he had fathered her child.
Andy, her son, was born mentally disabled but the terrible shock to the young girl soon passed into insignificants, when he gave her his first smile. Her young heart melted with the love she felt for him and all the pain she had suffered from the loss of the soldier slowly drifted away into a cloud of contentment.
In some ways she was quite lucky; although both her parents were dead she’d been left with a small inheritance not a great amount but enough to keep them comfortable. She spent her time making him happy, while he repaid her with a love so trusting it was a pleasure to watch them together.
She bought him many toys to play with, but his concentration level was such he couldn't stay focussed for long with anything too complicated. He’d wander off into a little world of his own seemingly quite contented with his own company.
On one particular day, Mrs Widderson was tying up some tomato plants in the garden and when finished she handed a long piece of unused cord to Andy who tried to tie it around his arm, then wrapped it around his waist in a butterfly knot, becoming totally absorbed.
She watched him in disbelief, for the first time in his life he was concentrating on a specific task. From that day onwards Andy went nowhere without his piece of cord.
More years passed and I watched this kind woman, with her devoted son, passing through the lives of many people. Scattering words of encouragement, like confetti in a churchyard, as she went along the way.
She was what you’d call a competent country cook, and her masterpieces donated to the Old Peoples Home was the talk of all who were lucky enough to sample them.
On my regular visits to her little cottage, I tasted the recipe’s that were taken from a tattered old book once belonging to her Grandmother, a ferocious old Scottish woman by all accounts. Afterwards I would share her gift of love in the tiny bedroom overlooking the lake.
I still remember fondly the hours I sat with Andy, tying the piece of cord with him, we didn’t manage many knots but we talked and laughed a lot.
In her early fifties she went to see her doctor for some medical tests, as continuing abdominal pains were causing her some concern. The result of these were devastating, to say the least, for the test proved positive and a malignant growth had been detected and she was given six months to live.
When she telephoned to ask if I would come to see her, I had no idea there was a problem. Perhaps I was too busy thinking about the apple pie that would surely be waiting for me, with sweetness of our love- making to follow.
I arrived at the cottage and she opened the door for me. Her manner was as usual cheery, as I contentedly slipped into my usual seat at the head of the table; taking in the scene of the baking meat pies for the old folk’s home, whilst savouring the smells of pure heaven.
Andy was sitting on the floor playing with his piece of cord, the whole scene making me feel as comfortable as only really belonging can.
After the meal we had a cup of coffee and a plate of sticky toffee pudding, as she explained her tragic dilemma. I listened with a sense of hopelessness and foreboding, eventually nodded towards Andy; an unasked question, regarding his future, on my lips.
Mrs Widderson explained that she had made plans for his future and that everything was taken care of. I said how sorry I was for her sad life, when she suddenly turned to me and spoke the words of a very brave woman. Words I’ve never forgotten.
She looked at me fondly, and without the slightest trace of self pity said, ‘I’ve had the love of two good men. My son has been devoted to me and I've been able to help many people along the way so there is nothing at all to feel sad about."
Later that evening, I walked home feeling a little ashamed of my selfish life, wondering about the fairness of it all. It then suddenly struck me, why she had invited me around to see her. It was in the hope of me taking responsibility for Andy, and I’d failed her. Thinking about it though I was not about to make that sacrifice. Home cooking and the need for physical satisfaction is a small sacrifice for a man who want’s to remain free without the encumbrance of people like Andy, a future mill-stone around my neck
The next day, the bitter Southern Wind blew down the valley from the mountains, bringing to Mullockgoolie a rare fall of snow. Andy stood on the front lawn seeing snowflakes for the first time, like tiny goose-feathers drifting gently earthwards; only to melt when they hit the ground to be lost forever. He tilted his face skywards and felt the chill on his warm skin; a child sensation against the body of a man.
That afternoon, Mrs Widderson took him to a Walt Disney film he wanted to see, and afterwards they had a meal at the ‘Drover's Dog’, his favourite eating place. She then took him home and read a story to him from his favourite book ‘The Big Friendly Giant’. He laughed, as always, at the antics of Sophie and the Queen of England.
Later, sitting in the loneliness of night with his head resting on her shoulder she took the piece of cord from his hand and tied it tightly around his neck. Andy made no sound but slipped quietly into his death, a trusting smile still on his face.
She nursed his body all night, not wishing to leave him alone his lifeless form surrounded by love. It was done, and now all she had to do was wait until her time arrived, hopefully sooner than later.
The ringing telephone woke her with a start, for she’d drifted off into a restless sleep. She placed Andy's lifeless head gently on a cushion and lifted the receiver. It was the voice of her doctor excitedly saying.
‘Its marvellous news, there's been a terrible mistake, your test was mixed up with someone else's and the cancer was not malignant after all; I'm so happy for you.’
END
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘The Snowball’
David Weaver ©
It was his smile that saved him from the wrath others received, and the boy often grinned at the way Billy manipulated those around him with the skill of a child prodigy playing a grand piano. He was everyone’s favourite, everyone’s friend, everyone’s rock; and the boy loved his unruly mate as you would a favourite brother.
One morning after a heavy bombing raid, the teacher walked into class crying, trying not to admitted, but crying nonetheless. She cleared her throat and said very quietly, ‘Billy wont be coming back to school again, he’s gone to Jesus, he felt no pain though because the bomb was a direct hit and he and his mother went off together so he wouldn’t be lonely.’
The boy buried his face in his hands, how at that moment he hated Jesus who had no right to take Billy away from all his friends, but he refused to cry for street kids are too tough for that he did wonder though if, as the teacher said, Billy wouldn’t be alone why were there tears streaming down her sad face and why did he feel so gutted?
Three years later, after many more air raids and moving house from Aston to Mere Green, the boy left his class at Hill Boy’s School, in what was the coldest winter seen in years. Millions of birds froze to death on the telephone wires and the roads were a foot deep in solid ice causing havoc across England. There was a traffic island at Mere Green and as the boy slithered through the school gate cars crashed into each other as they came around the island spinning and turning out of control like learner skaters on the ice covered pools in Sutton Park.
It was at this time the boy became aware of changed surroundings for standing in the road chipping away at the ice with pickaxes and shovels was a group of twenty German prisoners of war. They had pinched blue faces from the cold, and talked to each other in subdued voices in a language the boy didn’t understand. There were five armed English soldiers nervously guarding them because the working party was surrounded by a group of about fifty locals none too happy it seemed. Their faces too were serious as they watched, waited and remembered the bombs, the death, and the hatred intermingled with a fair amount of fear the fear known jokingly as ‘butt twitch’ but as everyone knows who has experienced it ‘butt twitch’ isn’t funny at all.
The boy remembered too, he remembered Billy, the laughing face and his going off to Jesus with his mother. As if by instinct he bent down and picked up a large handful of snow then rolled it into a boy’s oldest winter weapon since time began a snowball. Thus armed he straightened up and picked out his nearest target a young man shivering, blowing fruitlessly on his hands to try and get some blood circulating.
But as the boy raised his hand for the throw a man stepped from the crowd onto the ice, and walked towards the boys target holding out a cigarette towards him. The armed guards quickly ordered him to step back onto the pavement, but he ignored them and continued to offer the cigarette. The gathered crowd muttered amongst themselves, but watched fascinated nonetheless, for these were the enemy who’d tried their utmost to kill everyone. The German reached out and took the unexpected gift, put it into his mouth and nodded his thanks. The man took a box of matches from his pocket struck one then cupped his hand around the naked flame and held it towards the Germans face. The prisoner, lighting the cigarette, gratefully dragged the blue smoke down into his lungs and nodded again with the word ‘Danker’ the man then stepped back onto the pavement and rejoined the crowd.
The soldiers watched not knowing what to say or do as other men and women stepped forward and also handed out cigarettes to the other prisoners. One soldier, wiser than the rest, called out for everyone to take a break he slung his rifle over his shoulder and he too lit a cigarette and they all enjoyed a smoke together, the battlefield forgotten.
After the locals finally dispersed the boy was alone, still clutching his snowball, his German target turned towards him, stared briefly at the boy’s poised hand then drew himself to attention, as rigid as a flagpole, as if waiting for the icy missile to strike home. The boy took careful aim and in his mind’s eye saw the smiling face of Billy, with his mother and Jesus looking over his shoulder, and somehow his arm went slack, fell to his side and the snowball dropped into the gutter. Momentarily the Germans gaze met his, and a half smile of understanding passed between them then the boy turned on his heels and walked away without realising his wartime healing had begun, the hatred for the Germans was somehow lessoned, and all thoughts of Billy became safely locked away in the boys memory bank only to be taken out occasionally on those nostalgic days that come with old age.
END
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘Mists of time’
David Weaver ©
I drove through the valley this morning,
to a place called, ‘I know not where’.
It’s a favourite haunt I remember so well,
dreaming of love I once shared.
I turned in the car at one empty space,
at first lonely with no one to see.
But then I was joined by a face from the past,
and we drove into dreams you and me.
You looked as I’d always remembered,
when I loved you without a regret.
To the times when we shared our secrets,
before the moulds of our lives had been set.
I reached out and touched your bare shoulder,
turned your face so I’d see its fine lines.
Kissed you full on the lips with a passion,
stroked your smooth skin like old times.
I remembered my loins singing symbols,
wanted you more than dare said.
But you turned me away with my longing,
passion wasting away in my head.
Now I drive through the valley of long ago,
remembering those times from the past.
Saying the things I have never said,
as the rock of my spurning was cast.
On into the valley of ‘I know not where’,
hidden ghosts from times gone all around.
I’ll keep searching for you in the misty hills,
knowing one day you’ll be found.
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘The Secret Garden’
David Weaver ã
He wasn’t really sure where ‘Smithereens’ was, but if Ernie had gone there he couldn’t do anything to change it no matter how upset he felt. But nonetheless, he still wanted to say goodbye to him and remember the fun times they’d had together.
There’d be no more twitching of Ernie’s fierce moustache that would have made any walrus waddle proudly across the ice, nor the bushy eyebrows coming together in a frown, as he lectured the boy on the terrible human waste on the battlefields of ‘The Somme’. But worst of all there’d be no more free gobstoppers to suck, whilst hanging around his cobblers shop listening to other hair-raising stories from the Great War. Come to think of it there’d be no shop left to hang around in.
But he needed to visit, for one last time, the place where he’d shared so many of the old soldier’s adventures, to remember the stories of the tanks rolling over the barbed wire, crushing it flat so that brave men could make heroes of themselves in a futile bayonet charge. The knee-deep sludge of the trenches, the biting lice that drove men mad, the savage rats that ate things he dared not think about and only rotten food for months on end.
Ernie had been a brave man, his wheezy breathing a testament of the yellow clouds of mustard gas that left him with a terrible legacy of a never-ending fight for breath. He deserved better than that but received nothing other than the admiration of a small boy who would never forget him.
There’d be no more leaning on his workbench, watching gnarled hands work miracles with a pair of worn out boots. All those clinging smells of leather and sweat would be a thing of the past, andthe tapping of shiny tacks being driven into a pair of brewer’s clogs consigned into the boy’s memories. Gone were hobnails hammered into thick soles, to clatter noisily on the bluestone pavements,; echoing around the narrow alleyways or along the hard shale paths near the canals where huge Clydesdale horses plodded along the never-ending towpaths heads hanging down as if half asleep, the heavily laden coal barges sluggishly wallowing in their wake through the narrow waterways of the grimy city. Scruffy barge dogs trotted at the feet of their masters as they strode with determined steps towards the next lock for a pint of best ale at the canal-side pub, names like ‘The Dog and Partridge’, ‘The Fox and Hare’, and ‘The Hangman’s Noose’, still plying their trade as they had for three centuries.
For those were the back streets of the boy’s childhood in Birmingham. The slums he loved more than any outsider, not born to them, could ever understand. They were his dreaming places where he wrestled with his brother on the dirty cobblestones, and rolled in rain-soaked gutters. This was where there was a real sense of belonging, a place he could always return to and feel at home no matter how far he travelled. Even the gangs of dangerous thugs would nod in recognition, for deep down they knew he was one of them, even though he walked on the other side of the street for safety’s sake.
Through the dark tunnels into the back yards of the terraced houses, was forbidden territory for a small boy. A heavy bombing raid had destroyed much of the area, and his father’s ruling had been, ‘Stay away from the deep craters, Son, they are very dangerous and some bombs didn’t explode.’
He crossed Church Lane, but instead of following his father’s orders walked into the forbidden world. A sign stood before him proclaiming in large red letters,
‘DANGER–UNEXPLODED BOMBS–KEEP OUT’
Behind the sign was a large bomb crater, with steep sides of crumbled brick and concrete.
But something over to the left caught his attention. It was an old bombsite and as if by a miracle, amidst the desolation, there was a small garden that had survived the previous attacks. White alyssum contrasted sharply with the lovely crisp blue of lobelia, whilst yellow marigolds bobbed their heads in the slightest of breezes. Butterflies danced their frenzied dances of procreation as if their time on earth was running out, and flitting over a discarded yellow sink, from a destroyed washhouse, shimmering blue dragonflies were performing pirouettes of love low over the water.
He was stunned to see tiny tadpoles sunning in the warm water of the blocked sink, and realised that life goes on despite the horror. Some already had the small buds of growth at the base of their tails that would soon, miraculously, turn into legs. The sink was slightly off balance, so the boy scrambled down into the crater and dug some loose bricks from the sloping wall. He then levelled the sink to give more area for the tadpoles to swim in. Without realising it, he was helping nature’s relentless fight-back against the destruction of man.
Staying in the garden for as long as he dared, and swearing a solemn oath to return tomorrow, cross his heart and spit three times, he nodding silent goodbyes to his new found friends; the original goodbye, to an old friend quite forgotten. He retraced his steps through the tunnel and stepped back into the dangerous world of harsh reality. Walking slowly home he worked out the lies that would cover his disobedience, and decided to say nothing about the secret place.
The air raid that night was terrifying but the fear of joining Ernie was softened by the knowledge of the tadpoles. At least there was something to look forward to in the frightened mind of the boy from the slums.
The following morning he returned to the bombsite, but there was no danger sign to greet him. The crater had been replaced by a larger one, and the secret garden had vanished into a cloud of acrid dust all that had survived had gone forever. He searched, in vain, for the slightest chance of finding even one of the tadpoles but there was nothing. Feeling responsible for leaving his friends to die alone he tried not to cry, for tough street kids don’t do such things, but the tears wouldn’t listen to reason and neither would his heart.
Many years have past since those days, and that little boy is now an old man living in a town, in Australia, called Mullockgoolie. He walks around a nearby lake at night, and watches the wildlife in all its diversity, listening to the frog’s chorus, awakening old memories long forgotten. As he peers into the lily pads for signs of tiny tadpoles he remembers an upturned yellow sink and the sky blue of the dragonflies.
This beautiful oasis is far away from those dirty streets, in that other land across the world. Sometimes the old man wonders why he was spared, to write his stories, when many others were not so lucky, and sometimes he remembers his secret garden and asks himself why it had to be sacrificed like his friend Ernie, for no apparent reason. But worst of all he has a guilty secret that will never be answered. Was it a falling bomb that detonated the waiting death beneath the rubble, or had it been patiently waiting for the footsteps of a small boy to trigger off its timing mechanism?
END
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
‘Rosie Pham’
David Weaver ©
We’d heard on the grapevine she was coming, but no one really believed it; for whomever in their right mind would want to start a business like hers in such a small town as Mullockgoolie?
But Rosie’s little shop turned into a gold mine, customers from a former restaurant, in the city, followed her for they knew a good feed when they’d tasted one. When the locals realised this they also became hooked. I was the first to sit at one of her tables, and we soon became friends.
Rosie had a daughter, Trinh, who was about twelve years old and it was obvious to even the most casual observer she disliked her. Not by neglect as far as material things were concerned, for she sent her to one of the finest girl’s schools in a nearby town, but nonetheless the dislike was obvious.
Trinh idolised her mother and often became openly distressed at the antagonism, doing everything possible to please but it was a waste of time.
During an evening meal at the restaurant Rosie joined me. ‘Let’s have a glass of wine together,’ she said, ‘it’s about time I relaxed with a friend.’
As I was pouring her a glass, Trinh joined us. She gently kissed her mother on the cheek, but Rosie spun around and slapped her viciously across the face, shouting loudly, ‘Don’t do that I hate it when you creep up behind me.’
Trinh quickly stepped back, the unexpected blow causing her to stagger. I grabbed Rosie’s wrist as she made to strike her again.
‘Stop it,’ I shouted, ‘are you crazy or something?’
She regained control of herself, and walked briskly back into the kitchen.
Trinh also turned to leave, but I persuaded her to join me. She gave a sad smile and reluctantly sat down. ‘Why does she dislike me?’ She asked, ‘I’ve always loved her, but all she gives in return is hatred.’
I wondered the same thing, for the ill treatment being handed out was puzzling and quite out of character.
Rosie eventually came out of the kitchen, and took my order as if nothing had happened. I also ordered for Trinh whose nervous gaze darted towards her mother, but Rosie said nothing. She returned with the food, served us then silently departed again to the kitchen.
Later that week, whilst walking my dog along the creek near Skeleton Cutting, I came to the old stone bridge, and sitting on the parapet was Rosie. We talked for while, about nothing in particular, then I said to her, ‘You’d better make your peace with Trinh before it’s too late, or one day she’ll leave and you’ll live to regret it.’
She looked distressed. ‘I know, I’ve tried but deep inside I haven’t recovered from being a boat person. I used all my strength surviving and now there is nothing left, all my love is gone.’
‘Perhaps if you told someone, you’d lift the load from your shoulders then you could both start again.’
‘I would like to tell someone, but who would want listen my story for not many people really care.’
‘Tell me, but I warn you it will end up in a story one day.’
‘I don’t mind that as long as you are true as I tell it, and judge me fairly at the end.’
‘I’m waiting for you to begin.’
She stared at the water, as if her eyes were boring into the very bedrock then began. ‘Thirty of us left Vietnam in a leaky old boat. All our life savings were in that voyage, my husband, mother, father, and two brothers; the rest were people from our village.
Two weeks at sea, on our way to Australia, the boat's engine failed and we saw a small boat coming towards us, it approached carefully circling a few times. We waved to them and welcomed the crew as they came on board how stupid we were, but there really was no choice for we’d run out of drinking water two days earlier.
A man, who was obviously the leader, was the first to come on board. He was big, and had a heart shaped birthmark across his neck which stood out conspicuously like a red warning beacon, he also carried a wicked looking curved razor sharp knife.
His crew was frightened of him and he treated them badly, but that is the way with all pirates. Make the most of your top spot before someone kills you, and takes your place, for only the strong will thrive that is the way with all wild animals.
My husband Huong was their first victim. Gentle Huong, he was always so kind to everyone; ready to help those in trouble. They threw him overboard when the sharks came; he called out my name once then was gone.
The pirates laughed, it was horrible, and I wept uncontrollably for a beautiful human being. We were all terrified of them though, for they were heavily armed and we were not.
Each day that birthmark would be on display as another victim was chosen. One of my brothers tried to defend us, but he went over the side too my poor mother attacked the leader, but he picked her up as if she was a rag doll and threw her into the sea as well.
My other brother and father were the next to go, and with each murder my hatred increased twofold. When all the men were gone they started on the older women, I think by this time I was on the verge of madness.
Two weeks later a ship appeared on the horizon, and headed towards us. The pirates clambered on board their own boat, but before they cast off the leader came back for me. He was smiling, and the birthmark stood out like an evil warning. ‘You are coming with me.’ he said.
I kicked him in the groin, and as he went down clawed him like a tiger. The more I fought the more his crew laughed at him and suddenly he lost interest in me, I think he was injured because for an inexplicable reason he angrily jumped on board his boat and they quickly sailed away.
When the other boat pulled alongside I saw men in naval uniforms staring at us but all I wanted was to die. There were only four of us left, all young women.
So that is my story, nothing that hasn’t happened to many other boat people. Thankfully I was allowed to stay and now I’m as Aussie as you are, but much better looking.’ She laughed, and I realised her tragic story was finished.
A few weeks after hearing Rosie's story, Trinh asked me to attend a swimming competition at her school. She’d been entered in the two hundred metres freestyle and because Rosie had refused to accompany her I became a poor second choice.
On the day of the competition I asked Rosie to change her mind, but she wasn’t interested, so there I was a very bored spectator indeed. For the sake of Trinh though, I put on a smiling face when she finally lined up for the race.
It was at this time I sensed someone move next to me, and a familiar hand clasp mine. I knew, without turning, that Trinh was no longer alone and hopefully never would be again.
Someone fired the starting pistol and the swimmers were off. Rosie and I made total fools ourselves she jumped onto her seat and the crowd roared for her to sit down. An utter disgrace to the Shire of Mullockgoolie, and what’s worse she didn’t care a damn who knew it.
When Trinh was disqualified, Rosie ran down the poolside and abused the judge. How he finished up in the deep end is open to conjecture but Rosie reckoned it was when he bashed her clenched fist a couple of times with his nose.
‘Why did they disqualify her?’ She asked, angrily, after we’d been thrown out of the venue.
‘Incorrect stroke, but any fool could see she was waving to someone very special.’
We both laughed. ‘Are you OK now, Rosie?’ I asked.
She smiled and when her eyes turned towards me there was no longer any sadness in them. ‘Everything will be fine from now on because when Trinh came out to swim and slipped off her dressing gown, that’s the first time I could look at her without feeling utter hatred for that heart shaped birthmark on her neck.
End
David Weaver
gone but not forgotten
Hello Bernard just wondering if you're getting on with your life OK. I've been thinking about you for a while now so give us a wave and let me know how you are. Kind regards, David, just an Aston lad.