The Poisoned Tree
by Tristan Sender
The rain fell heavily washing away the earth to reveal a history of secrets.
Trafford felt a rush of tiny tingles passing through his body from his feet to his head. He understood more about himself now than ever before. Today was the first time in years that he had felt at peace with himself.
A month ago he had been sat in the economy class seat of a Cathay Pacific Boeing 747-400 on a journey from his old world to this new one. He had been full of trepidation and anxiety, calmed only by several large gin and tonics. Trafford had never left the United Kingdom; he had never really left England, except for a couple of short canoeing trips across the border into Wales.
Sydney was to be a new start for him, a place where no one knew him, or his past. He could begin again and become the person he wanted to be, and most of all forget who he had become.
Trafford had spent the first two weeks living in a backpacker’s hostel in King Cross. He had hated the lack of privacy and the constant noise of drunken Irish and English voices echoing through the dorm. He had spent most of this time visiting the various suburbs around Sydney in search of a more permanent residence. He had quite a bit of money saved, and intended to live alone for as long as he could afford.
It was sheer luck that he stumbled upon the place that was to become his new abode. Trafford had quickly realised that renting a house through a real estate agent was a competitive business. He could never compete with the barrage of people at every viewing each armed with a resume of top jobs and references to match. He had just been to a particularly busy open house in the once working class turned trendy, now posh, suburb of Balmain, and had decided to give up and find a pub. Trafford had been walking down a leafy street lined with Victorian houses on one side and an elevated view of the harbor and city on the other when he caught a glimpse of a huge old oak tree towering up above one of the slate roofs. He was at once mesmerised by the trees grand stature. Its thick branches swayed slowly in the wind and its dark green leaves seemed to hiss at him as they fluttered in the cool breeze. He must have looked strange standing in the middle of the road staring up over the roof of the old house. So strange the owner soon came out and tried to talk to Trafford.
“Can I help you?” enquired the owner. He was an old man with flashes of grey hair and bronze coloured spectacles.
When Trafford didn’t reply and just continued to stare as if in a dream that could not be broken the old man again inquired in a much louder voice “Are you OK?”
Trafford still continued to stare, not a muscle flinched, not an eyelid blinked.
Julius the owner began to worry and debated whether he should approach this strange looking man in the street, perhaps he had just escaped from a local institute, maybe he should call the police. Before he made up his mind the man in the street closed his eyes and plummeted backwards into the road hitting his head hard on the tarmac. Julius immediately ran to his aid, and as he reached the fallen body, the man opened his eyes and uttered “What happened?” Julius explained how he had been standing in the middle of the road for at least half an hour just staring up over his roof. Trafford remembered and replied “I was admiring your oak tree and then the next thing I knew I was down here.”
“How strange, maybe its dehydration, it can creep up on you and make you do the oddest things. Look why don’t you come inside for a bit and I will make you a nice cup of tea and take a look at that bump on your head.”
Julius brewed a pot of tea and the two men got chatting. Trafford explained he had recently come over from the U.K to start a new life, and that he was out looking for a place to rent. The old man told him how he had also moved over with his wife from the U.K forty years ago. They had lived together all this time in the same house until she died four years ago. He told Trafford about the history of the neighborhood and its rise from a poor working class suburb to its current fashionable status. He talked at length about the colourful local characters that had lived and died on the Balmain peninsula. They got on so well that before they knew it several hours had passed. Eventually Trafford got up to make a move and head back to his soulless noisy dorm room existence. “Thank you so much for your hospitality; I am really sorry for my strange behavior earlier”
“Oh please don’t worry the heat can do strange things when you aren’t used to it.” Julius proclaimed. “Anyway I have really enjoyed your company”
“Me too, you are the first friendly face I have seen in weeks”
“Before you go would you like to take a proper look at the tree you were so fascinated with earlier?”
“I would love too and I promise not to go all strange on you again.”
“It is quite a site! In fact its one of the oldest Trees in the neighborhood; it was here long before this house was built”
Julius gestured Trafford towards the door that led out the back of the house. The garden was small charming and perfectly formed. Julius clearly took great pride in his little oasis. There was an abundance of plant life and smells to match. The sweet odor of jasmine mixed with frangipani hung in the late afternoon air, Trafford breathed it in enjoying the matching visual festival of colour. At the centre was the large oak tree which stretched up far above the houses. Its trunk was thick and dark, the bark had deep thick gorges that flowed up into the green foliage. Trafford placed his hand on the cool wood and ran his palms over its calluses. As he began to hug the thick trunk a flock of red, green and blue parakeets descended onto the branches above chatting loudly to each other. He looked up to see the birds perched on the end of every branch like a colorful blossom. The sound of their chatting became louder and louder and Trafford began to feel dizzy. He felt almost intoxicated by the colour, noise and strong sickly scent of blooming flowers. As he continued to gaze up, the tree began to spin, faster and faster, the colour of the birds, leaves and tree blended into a circular rainbow. He could just hear Julius shouting in the background but he couldn’t make out what he was saying, and his voice soon faded to nothing.
Trafford awoke with a jolt; he was lying in bed covered tightly by a perfectly folded sheet and woolen blanket. It brought back memories of nights spent at his grandparents, long since passed. He unfastened himself from the well tucked bedding and got out of bed. He opened the blinds to reveal a perfect view of the harbor and city. He was still in Julius’s house; he must have passed out and been put to bed. He felt embarrassed and was dreading having to confront his host. His clothes had been folded and placed carefully on a chair at the end of the bed. He dressed quickly, opened the bedroom door and headed downstairs to face the music.
The narrow stairs creaked under his weight as he sheepishly descended into the living area. The small cluttered room was empty and cold, he moved through to the front room which was equally devoid of his host. Lastly he checked the kitchen to find under a set of keys a piece of paper with his name on it. The handwriting looked somehow familiar as he read the note aloud.
Dear Trafford,
I hope you slept comfortably. I enjoyed your company and conversation yesterday. I have unfortunately been called away on some errands but should be back shortly. Please make yourself at home, and feel free to stay here with me as long as you like. I have left you a set of keys so that you may come and go as you please.
Best wishes,
Julius
Trafford was relieved to hear there was no mention of any strange behavior, and pleased that he had found somewhere different from the backpackers to stay. He made himself some tea and toast before heading back to Kings Cross to collect his gear and settle his bill.
He returned several hours and a few beers later to an empty house. Julius had not come home, so he had the whole place to himself. With a bit of rummaging he managed to rustle himself up a tuna sandwich and a glass of sweet sherry, which he carried up to the first floor balcony so he could enjoy the sunset views.
He had barely finished his sandwich before he descended into a deep sleep. Some hours later he awoke in bed choking for air, he was being strangled. He fought for his life tearing at the thick limbs that encircled his neck. He soon realised that it was not arms but branches of a tree that he was fighting. The oak tree was trying to kill him. He did not have time to reason why or how, it would only be a few moments before he passed out. He flayed his arms out to the side of him in search of a weapon, anything he could hit back with. His right arm brushed against the metal base of the deco lamp on the table to the side. He summoned all the energy he had left in his weakening body, grabbed hold of the lamp and brought it crashing down on the attacking branches. The lamp smashed sending tiny shards of green glass across his body. The tree hissed and released its grip for a second. He span and shook managing to release himself from its deathly grip. Leaping from the bed he shot out the door down the stairs, through the lounge and dining area into the quiet night. He ran naked, except for his white underpants, down the middle of the street, until eventually he came to a park. There he rested on a on a park bench and took his first real breath. As the oxygen filled his lungs and made its way back to his starved brain he took stock of what had happened and where he was. The park was quiet except for the rustle of branches and whistle of the grass in the wind. He felt cold and his teeth began to chatter. As his eyes adjusted to the light he could make out a white figure lying in grass.
He decided to approach the person and see if maybe they could help him. He couldn’t really go back to the house, and he didn’t want to wander around the streets in nothing but his underpants. This person might be his only way out of the situation he found himself in. As he got closer he could see that in the grass laying face down was a tall woman with long red hair wearing a flowing white cotton dress. He didn’t want to scare her, so he quietly asked “excuse me miss please don’t be alarmed but I really need some help.” The woman didn’t stir or move. He tried again but louder. Still no movement and it dawned on him that maybe the woman was in more trouble than him. He reached down and gently touched her. He could hear strained breathing and a low deep desperate murmur coming from her lungs. He quickly turned her body over and as he did he felt a thick warm sensation; he looked down to see his hands covered in blood. The front of her dress was soaked dark red and her neck was purple and bruised. She looked at him through frightened eyes and began to scream, a piercing terrified call for help.
He awoke again in bed. He was covered in a cold thick sweat and was shivering. It had all been a dream. It was nearly midday when he rose and went downstairs. His first reaction was to head outside to check on the tree just to make sure, but he decided to take a shower and clean up first. He felt much better and made himself a cup of tea before heading outside to the garden. The tree was still standing majestically in its place as if nothing had happened. The only strange thing was a large scattering of green leaves had fallen forming a carpet underneath. He found a broom and swept them up before finishing his tea in the early afternoon sun.
He wondered what had happened to Julius, as he had been gone for some time now. He was relieved on heading inside to find another note fixed under a heavy silver bracelet by the sink. He opened it and read it aloud:
Dear Trafford,
Sorry I missed you but you were fast asleep when I returned home last night and I didn’t have the heart to wake you this morning. Please help yourself to anything you need, and we will talk again when I am back.
Best wishes,
Julius
Trafford felt a warm glow inside. It was so rare to meet someone so nice and welcoming. He decided to head out and do some shopping for the house. He thought when he got back he would make a nice meal to thank Julius for his kindness.
His specialty was roasts; he had learnt his grandmother’s secret recipe for slow roasted pork shoulder in cider and decided this would be a good choice. He spent a good few hours shopping for ingredients in the local stores. He bought a couple of expensive bottles of wine, a red and a white, as he didn’t know what Julius favored, and headed home in anticipation of a nice evening.
It was around five thirty by the time he got the meat on for its three hour stint in the oven. He found some wood in the small outside toilet turned storage room and made about starting a fire in the open Victorian fireplace in the lounge. He cracked open the red poured a glass and sat in the soft armchair to wait for Julius. He must have dozed off for he awoke to the high pitched sound of the fire alarm above his head. He leapt up and ran into the kitchen to reveal the burnt cinders of his dinner in the oven. It was nearly two in the morning and Julius had still not returned, so he cleaned up the mess and headed to bed.
That night he once again dreamed a strange dream. He was back in the park and this time he was dressed but not in his clothes. He was wearing tweed trousers and a matching blazer similar to the ones he had seen in the wardrobe in which he had placed the contents of his backpack the day before. He was sat on the same bench and could make out a figure dressed in black lying face down in the grass. As he approached he could see that she had long dark hair and was wearing a flowing cotton dress. He asked quietly “Are you OK, can I help?” There was no sound. He knelt down and could hear the woman quietly crying into the grass. He touched her and felt the now familiar feeling of warm fresh blood on her body. As he turned her over she cowered hiding her beaten face from his. He stood over her and tried to speak, but she looked at him terrified and screamed a long gurgling cry for help.
He woke up in bed. This time he was not sweating and he knew it had just been a dream. He headed downstairs to see if Julius had returned. There was no one home, he was still alone. As he headed into the kitchen to start his morning tea making ritual he noticed another note held in place by a gold ankle chain. He opened the hand written note and read it aloud.
Dear Trafford
Sorry I missed you again but I didn’t get back until very early this morning. I hope you didn’t go to any effort to make me dinner. I did attempt to wake you before I left but you wouldn’t stir. I will try to come back earlier tonight so we can catch up properly. I feel we have a lot more to discuss. Have a nice day, and please make yourself at home.
Best wishes,
Julius
P.S Please be careful when cooking not to burn the house down
Trafford did wonder what a man nearly in his seventies could be doing out so late every night, but guessed it was none of his business.
He headed into the garden to enjoy his tea in the sun, and everything outside was the same except for another even thicker carpet of leaves below the tree.
Every night that week Trafford would get home make dinner, and every night Julius did not return. The dreams continued. Each was the same except for a few things. The clothes he wore always changed, and the girls were always different. He became more confident within each one and by the end of the week they were becoming quite matter of fact. Everyday he would get up and find a new note from Julius under a different piece of jewelry. He had also become quite worried about the huge Oak tree as it was shedding more and more leaves as each night passed. Even the chatting birds had long since abandoned the great tree for a livelier meeting place.
After nearly two weeks alone Trafford had made the decision to leave the next day. The dreams whilst matter of fact, were bothering him, and they didn’t seem normal. He had thought perhaps a change of scenery might do him some good. That night he packed his bag and prepared to move on. He went to bed around eleven o’clock and lay in bed waiting for another strange dream. It never happened, he slept a long deep dreamless night and awoke surprised, happy and refreshed. He got up and headed downstairs to see what Julius had written today. There was no note so he headed outside to say good buy to the sick tree, only to find there were no more leaves furnishing its thick branches; just a skeleton of dead wood filled the sky above him. It was as if something or someone had slowly poisoned the tree dragging the life from this mighty beast. He cried deeply and genuinely for the loss of this great old man.
Trafford headed inside and got ready to leave. He sat down and scribbled out a note for Julius and then read it out to himself.
Dear Julius,
I have decided to move on up the coast and see a bit of Australia. It is a shame that we have not been able to catch up again, but it has been nice living in your house all the same. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality; staying here has been the real highlight of my trip.
I t am also sorry to inform you that it looks like something or someone has poisoned your oak tree. I do hope this doesn’t sadden you too deeply. I only wish there was something I could have done to save it.
If I am ever in town again I will be sure to drop in and visit.
Forever in your debt,
Trafford
With that he placed the note in the kitchen by the sink under a bottle of champagne he had bought to say thank you, and headed to the front door for the last time. Before he could open it and step outside he heard a loud crash of thunder and the sky lit up with electricity. The black clouds opened up and a heavy downpour began. Trafford wasn’t a very prepared traveler and didn’t have any type of protection against such a rainstorm, so he decided to wait a bit until it stopped.
He sat in the soft chair and waited and waited but the rain never ceased. After a few hours he got bored and decided to open the champagne he had bought as a gift. He thought the old man probably wouldn’t drink it anyway. He poured it into a mug and toasted to new pastures and adventures.
Trafford was woken, mug still in hand by a loud clap of thunder, and realised it was already past midnight. He would have to stay one more night, so he headed up the now well trodden creaky stairs to his soft bed, lay down and was asleep in seconds.
Trafford was pulled suddenly from his deep slumber. The crack of breaking wood and collapsing roof deafened him. Plaster fell off the ceiling above and showered him with bricks as the roof came clean off. The wind tore in and the rain soaked him, as the huge oak tree ripped through the house like it was paper. Its final fall missed him by inches taking the wall away on the opposite side of the room. He jumped up and ran downstairs. The front door was blocked but he managed to climb out the kitchen window into the relative safety of the garden.
The dead tree had been torn clean up by its roots revealing a huge chasm in the earth around it. As he looked into the huge hole he saw something that sent shivers up his spine. Lying there was the bloated muddy disfigured body of a man. He could still make out grey wisps of hair and a pair of bronze spectacles attached to what was once Julius’s face. He screamed in horror but this time he did not wake up. As he looked in at the awful site he noticed Julius was not alone but part of a mangle of rotting dead body parts.
Trafford reeled back in shock and disbelief. He stood transfixed not knowing what to do next. Only the sound of sirens from the emergency services in the distance, and the noise of neighbors getting up broke him from his trance.
He ran and hurled himself over the six foot high fence at the back of the garden, into the muddy ally behind. From here he sprinted into the wet night. He felt he had been running for hours before he came to rest in a park. There in the middle was the bench from his dreams. Trafford sat and rested taking in what he had just witnessed. He looked over towards where he had found the women each night in his sleep and saw nothing. As he approached he noticed the grass was flattened as if someone had recently laid there. He knelt down and felt the compacted green space, it felt familiar and almost comforting. Then his mind flicked back to Julius and the dead people beneath the tree and he began to panic.
How could it be possible, the body he had seen looked as if it had been there for weeks, but Julius had been leaving him notes up until a night ago? He fumbled in his pockets looking for proof and pulled out the wedge of letters that Julius had written to him. They were real, so it couldn’t be true. He read through them one by one, until finally he came to the thank you letter he had written to Julius. He must have put it in his pocket accidently when he opened the champagne. As he read his words he noticed there was something strange about it, something similar to the other letters. Then in a moment of calm realisation it dawned on him, the handwriting on his and Julius’s letters was identical, and it was unmistakably his.
So Shall Ye Reap
by Lindsay Ratcliffe
Nothing is ever really perfect. Most people grasp this concept at a fairly early stage in their lives and learn to accept it. John, my husband, on the other hand, will never accept that perfect is not achievable. He strives for it in everything he does and expects it of everyone and everything else. I don’t really believe he has ever experienced contentment or true happiness, which, speaking as his wife of eleven years, is a pretty difficult statement to make.
How can I live with his malcontent you might want to know? Well in the same way that anyone can learn to live with an affliction. You can either seek out a cure or you can try to understand it and gradually learn to live with it. I believe his condition is caused by the fact that he is an identical twin. This is not a generalisation about all pairs of identical twins, but rather a specific conclusion based on my detailed observations about my husband John and his relationship with his brother Adam.
Adam was born first, and it seems that John has never forgiven Adam, or himself, for that fact. Instead, he has spent his whole life trying to beat Adam at everything else. Knowing that this is his psychosis makes it somewhat easier to deal with because when he’s acting up I have a good reason to ignore his behaviour and focus on something more meaningful, instead of stressing about it. Oh and I should point out that this diagnosis is not one that have shared or will share with John. He believes he simply wants the best for himself and his family and that Adam has no bearing on anything he does.
In late winter we moved into a new home in the south end of Coogee and even though it’s in the South of Coogee, as John liked to emphasise, it’s not in South Coogee. Apparently an important distinction. It’s a free-standing, three-storey house with four bedrooms and only one other house between us and the ocean. Most important, due to our elevated angle on the cliff side we have uninterrupted sea views from most of the easterly facing facets of the house. We can’t quite afford it of course, but at least in John’s opinion we have a better home, with better views and in a better location than Adam does. Don’t get me wrong, it is pretty spectacular, but it feels tainted. Not pure somehow.
After settling in and doing a couple of minor modifications to personalise the house, we invited a few friends, including Adam and his wife Anna, over for a small house warming. We were lucky as it was during one of the shoulder weather weeks, where officially it’s still winter, yet the temperatures and humidity tantalise with the first taste of summer. We polished the Riedel glasses, uncorked a couple of bottles of good wine from the cellar and took delight as our guests made the appropriate ‘ooo’s and ‘ah’s as the evening light fade on the uninterrupted view of the sea from the balcony.
Everyone was suitably impressed with the house: the interior, the exterior and the view. I topped up Adam’s glass with a rather nice 2005 Shiraz Viogner. He swilled the dark viscous liquid around the crystal glass and then sipped. He nodded at me. At first I thought it was a nod of approval at the wine but moments later I realised it was a kind of warning for the goading that he was about to administer to my husband.
“Well my brother, you have come a long way! This has been a truly magnificent evening. Wonderful company, wonderful wine in a beautiful house in a fantastic location! Here’s to you, Mica and the kids!”
Everyone raised their glasses. John smiled triumphantly, yet before he had chance to seal the victory with a swig from his glass Adam added,
“Shame about that damn tree though!”
“What?”
All of a sudden, as if Mother Nature herself had just dropped by and made a surprise delivery, we all turned and glared at the naked skeleton of the tree that clung to the hillside somewhere between our house and the ocean.
“Well, when spring hits properly and that tree is in all its glory, you can say goodbye to your ocean views!”
Adam somehow managed to find the one flaw in John’s dream. John choked as if the wine had coagulated in his throat; neither of us had ever noticed the tree before. He dabbed at his nostrils with a napkin trying to hide any evidence of wine stained mucus that might betray his dismay. He cleared his throat,
“Oh that thing. I have plans for. It’s half dead anyway.”
“Plans hey? I’m sure the local council would have something to say about you hacking up the environment considering the bazillions they just forked on coastal facelift!”
I watched the candlelight play in Adam’s eyes. Finding John’s button was like hitting the Jackpot at a Vegas casino and he wasn’t about to walk away. And John, without fail, rose to the bait.
“Yeah, exactly! Why spend all that money and leave a mangy tree to spoil it? I’d be doing them a favour and saving them money!”
Sarah, a good friend of mine and the wife of John’s offsider at work chipped in,
“You can’t just go around getting rid of trees! There are laws against that.”
Closely followed by Anna, Adam’s wife,
“Not just laws, but what about ethics. The rest of the world is campaigning to save trees and you’re talking about running around cutting them down!”
John was on the back foot now, trying his best to save face as well as his views.
“Hey hey, let’s not blow this out of proportion. I’m not talking about felling an entire South American rain forest! The damn thing’s probably not even native and not even meant to be here in the first place!”
Anna pushed back her chair, stood and with both hands planted firmly on the table leant in towards John.
“You’re right. It’s not native. It’s European. It’s an Oak tree and an old one at that!”
“It can’t be that old if it’s not native?” Adam tried to deter his wife from getting too inflamed but she continued regardless:
“Oak is regarded as the King of the Forest in England! It’s even said to be the wood of Merlin’s wand. It’s sacred. All trees are sacred as they connect the earth with the sky…”
“Oh enough of your hippie bullshit! You’ll be asking us to dance naked around it next!” John tried to make light humour.
“Hmmm seeing your milky flesh ripple in abject rhythm, didn’t factor into my plan to save the tree, but whatever it takes!”
John instantly pulled back his shoulders and pulled in his fine-dined stomach. We all laughed, hoping Anna’s dry humour hadn’t soaked up what was left of the atmosphere of a good evening.
She turned her back and headed towards the house, then turned but continued to walk backwards.
“Do you believe in karma John?”
“Oh here we go!”
“In every culture John, there’s a similar philosophy: that you get back what you give out. Some even believe that you reap up to three times what you sow. For good and bad. Just keep that in mind before you decide to kill that tree John.”
She smiled, but she meant every word of what she said.
“I was joking about the fucking tree Anna! Jeeze!”
“Do what you will Adam, I’m just saying, that actions have consequences.”
“OK, OK! I get it! The tree lives!”
The evening didn’t last much longer. I tried in vain to reignite conversation about a random topic in Anna’s brief absence. When Anna returned, she just stared tranced-like past the tree, out to the milky reflection of the moon on the sea. Adam revelled in goading John, who sulked into the rest of his wine before accidently dropping one of the Reidels on the tiled floor. Needless to say, it didn’t survive intact. I was less than impressed and Anna and Adam left shortly afterwards, probably to avoid the uncomfortable domestic that was brewing.
******
Almost twelve months to the day, John and I were laying the table on the patio for lunch. I’d made quite an effort and even baked a quiche, with home-made pastry. Something I hadn’t done for years. It had cracked a little when I rolled it but seemed to have held together pretty well in the baking. I saw Anna walking up the path from the sea, closely followed by Adam. Anna waved, but I noticed a tight-lipped smile. The kind that you see before the wearer delivers uncomfortable news.
John walked out polishing a Reidel glass. I glared at him. He returned the Reidel to its rightful place indoors and returned with the cheap glasses. Adam and Anna appeared on the patio. We kissed and hugged and exchanged the perfunctory greetings. John didn’t bother asking, he just handed Anna a glass of wine. She took it from him, raised her eyebrow to acknowledge the use of the cheap glass, swilled the wine around the bowl and then sipped. She seemed pleasantly placated that the wine was of much better quality than the glass led her to believe.
“Have you seen the sign?”
Both John and I quizzed each other’s faces. Neither of us knew what Anna was referring to.
“The yellow public notice board on next door’s fence?”
John walked to the limit of the patio to eye the article in question.
“What is it?”
“Looks like they’ve got permission to extend.”
My automatic reaction was to hold my breath and clench my jaw. Anna took a larger mouthful of wine than one would normally do, probably to brace herself for what she knew would follow. For a second I thought John was going to leap over the balcony. He gripped the handrail tight with both hands leaning as far over as he could, then turned on his heels and fled across the patio and down the stairs to the path. Adam, Anna and I, walked blindly to the place John had just occupied, compelled like onlookers to a car crash.
John stood by the temporary fencing, in the shadow of the north side of our neighbour’s house. It had been wrecked, beyond simple repair, when the electrical storms of late spring had felled the dying oak tree and flattened the front porch, living room and second story balcony. Since then they had done no more than make the house safe.
The muscles in John’s cheeks were clenched so tightly that we could see them from our position on the balcony. His hands were balled into fists even tighter. He stormed back towards our house.
“I guess a relaxing lunch will be out of the question now?” I murmured under my breath to Anna, who offered an apologetic smile, even though she had nothing to apologise for.
“What’s wrong darling?” I offered in the lightest tone I could muster.
“Fucking three storeys!! Three fucking storeys!! They can’t do it! It will wipe tens of thousands off our house! We’ll dwarf in comparison, we’ll be in their shade and they’ll rob us completely of our sea view! We’ll see nothing of it from here if these plans go ahead! There’s no fucking way!! Over my dead fucking body! Over my fucking DEAD body!”
Inconsolable was an understatement. Adam tried,
“Hey mate, they haven’t got full permission yet, it’s only in the planning stages. It might not be allowed to go ahead!”
This riled him further,
“He’s on the fucking council! Of course he’s gonna get permission!”
“Gosh, I guess this is after the insurance claim for the damage done by the tree? You can’t blame them in some respects, no point in just making good, you might as well make it better.”
Anna had a great habit of saying what everyone else was thinking but no-one else would dare say out loud. John was pacing. With each turn of direction his mood grew meaner. The throbbing veins on his forehead showed the strain, as he considered all his various options. I knew I needed to rescue the quiche from the oven before it burnt, not that it would probably get eaten now, but I felt rooted to the spot. I was worried that if I wasn’t there that John would do something that we would both end up regretting.
He picked up the large paperweight that had been used to stop the napkins blowing away. In my calmest but firmest voice I said,
“John, just what ever you’re thinking of doing, don’t! Just put down the paper weight John.”
He brought the paperweight up into both his hands and squeezed as hard as he could, channelling all his anger. His shoulders slumped forward and he put the paperweight back on the table.
“What the fuck anyway!”
He was defeated. Broken. He picked up his wine and drank the whole glass down without taking a breath. I gingerly placed my hand on his shoulder to comfort him and show my solidarity in his grief for what was our short-lived dream home.
“It is pretty unfair on you guys.”
Anna offered. I raised my eyebrows, John was too broken to react.
“Pretty unfair? You think?”
“Well most things happen for a reason. Actions have consequences and all that…”
“Anna come on…” Adam tried to dissuade Anna from saying too esoteric.
“Well it was an accident, a freak of nature, that the tree damaged their house. You’ve gotta ask why bad things happen to good people?”
John poured himself another glass of wine.
“Not everything has rhyme and reason, shit can just happen!”
This was exactly how I would have expected John retort, however something odd struck me about his tone. When he’s passionate, his voice is strong and he is animated. However his tone was passive, as if defeated or that he didn’t believe what he just said. It seemed that only I noticed this lack of conviction as Anna continued to try to console us with her brand of reason.
“Who could have warranted that the storm would have uprooted that Oak tree? It’s a tree known for its strength and endurance. They usually don’t just fall down. Then for their bad luck to result in a massive win for them. It’s almost like they planned it! I wonder if it’s an insurance scam?”
“Maybe it is just Karma after all.”
John finished his second glass of wine in much the same way as the first.
“John, what do you mean?”
He still spoke in the same defeated tone. I didn’t quite get where he was coming from. It seemed Anna did though. Her expression flashed from one of sympathy to one of disbelief. She rose up.
“You did something didn’t you John? That oak tree didn’t just fall because of the storm?”
John hung his head and emptied the rest of the bottle into his glass.
“John what did you do?”
I hoped he was about to deny whatever it was that Anna was intimating.
“The tree wasn’t native. It shouldn’t have been here anyway!” he said in some pathetic attempt to excuse his actions.
“John what did you do?” I repeated.
“It was in our way, blocking our view.”
“John what did you do?”
“I poisoned the tree. I poisoned the fucking tree! I was going to get on to the council to dig it up when it died! I didn’t know a freaking storm would rip it up and dump it on next doors house. I certainly didn’t know it would mean they got an insurance pay out that would mean they could replace the fucking tree with a three fucking storey extension!”
Somewhere inside the house I could hear the mechanical scream of the smoke alarm. My quiche was burning.
The Poisoned Tree
by David Reid
Not so long ago I used to fantasize about having time on my hands, time to write or draw or paint or play guitar or build or read or lie in the sun, and most of all, time to think my thoughts. A year ago my wish came true: retired forever through one moment of stupidity, one ill conceived lift which damaged my spine beyond repair. And now I sit staring out the window while my wife works and fantasizes about having free time.
So I sit and stare at trees and waste weeks at a time and pray for something new to occupy my thoughts, something big and important and worrying, something compelling enough to interrupt my unhealthy introspection. I look at the empty windows next door, and think about what was, what almost was, and I wonder if I could have done things differently, and if that would have changed anything. Five years ago would have been the time to do it, to maybe throw the switch and send destiny down another track. A tree, now five years old, but somehow, I suspect, so much older.
The house next door was empty back then, but that was all about to change.
…
I looked up from my computer to see a moving van out front of the place next door. It was a Saturday and I was wrestling with a spreadsheet which absolutely refused to behave. I’d come to two conclusions at roughly the same time; first, there was something odd about the formatting of the numbers which made the equations fall apart, and second, I really needed to get a job which didn’t encroach on my allegedly spare time. My wife of some twenty odd years was making kitchen noises in the kitchen. Somehow, she managed to make similar noises regardless of what room she was in, but that’s another story.
The house had been on the market for a few months, a situation we weren’t altogether comfortable with. We’d always liked our neighbors, inasmuch as they never called the cops on our invariably late and invariably noisy parties. I had a theory about suburbs and neighbours. You could live in the most exclusive burb and be surrounded by assholes, and apart from paying inflated land rates, you’d have little to show for your investment. Or, you could live in a shitty neighbourhood with good people on either side as a buffer, and live like a king. We had the best neighbors of all, people who went their own way and did their own things – whatever they were – and basically left us the hell alone. So the arrival of new people filled us with not a little trepidation.
I called my wife over for a look.
‘I’m busy,’ she said, dropping a few dozen saucepans into the sink by way of punctuation.
‘He’s young and hot.’ We’d been married so long and knew each other’s tastes pretty well. She could have just had easily have said the same to me about a woman. ‘He’ was lugging a depressingly large carton, tendons and veins bulging through otherwise lean forearms. The denim jeans and black T-shirt didn’t give away much – tradie or roadie would have fit equally well. Sharon – my wife – came and leaned across me, slowly parting the curtain a little more for a better look.
‘He’s probably gay. Or works for the removalists,’ she said. ‘No, wait, what’s this? Hmm. Looks like your luck might have turned too.’ Sharon didn’t sound entirely happy.
Like I said, I knew her type, and she knew mine. Mine was harder to define. It wasn’t as simple as blonde or tits or ass, although they were all definitely present in our apparently new neighbour, emerging from the back of the van. It was more stature – or lack thereof – and a certain vulnerability or shyness. It’s amazing how much one can pickup in a brief glance, but both my wife and I were instantly aware that our neighbourhood was suddenly and irrevocably changed. Sharon turned quietly and walked back into the kitchen.
‘What?’ I called after her, in a slightly offended tone, knowing full well. She admired young male flesh in a respectful, almost worshipful way, secure in the knowledge that her catholic guilt would derail any improper thoughts that went much beyond a handshake. On the other hand, on a semi-regular basis some poor young girl would make the mistake of finding me funny or interesting and I would spend the next year or so obsessing about her. I continued to watch the activity next door until it became painfully clear that the young couple next door were outrageously happy.
The next day was Sunday, and I left early to check out the local market. Sharon liked to sleep late on weekends. I came back with a small tree. I shouldn’t have as I’m really clueless about such things, but I saw it in a pot and it looked like a housewarming gift and so I bought it. I didn’t ask what it was, how to look after it, or how big it grew. I woke Sharon to share my excitement at being so neighbourly. She rolled over and muttered into the pillow:
‘I suppose you’d like me to get up and bake some fucking muffins too?’
I didn’t go next door immediately. I went back to the computer and spreadsheet, and I swear that it was only seeing her husband leaving the house that reminded me I had a present for her. Sorry, them.
By this time Sharon was up.
‘I’m taking that tree over now. Sure you don’t want to come?’
‘Not really.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
Which is how and where it all started. There was no shortage of chemistry between Chris and me. True to form I obsessed over her. True to form, Sharon tolerated it, just. Chris planted the tree on the boundary, between her place and ours, so I could see it from my computer and she, coincidentally, from hers.
…
It is only with 20-20 hindsight that you ever realize the things you thought were trivial weren’t, that the things that seemed so fucking important at the time were just noise, and that the truly important things were the things that you simply didn’t think about at all. It took a few years to even suspect there was something truly odd about the tree. Not having been gifted with a green thumb, the only thought I gave to the seasons was my yearly rant at the deciduous trees dotting our yard that made mowing such a pain in the ass for a few weeks each year. Consequently, the fact that the ‘gift’ blossomed and grew according to its own bizarre timetable was lost on me for ages, and would have continued to be lost on me if I hadn’t spent so much time at that damned computer desk, staring at it.
For the first year, the new neighbours - Chris and Trevor - appeared to be fantastically happy, but not so much when we were around. We had invited them to a couple of parties, and they invited us across for dinner. Chris and I always had a blast, less so our respective spouses. Sharon didn’t appear to particularly like either of them, and this was reciprocated by Trevor. That is, until Chris got pregnant. Everyone was suddenly over the moon, and for a while things went swimmingly. We were all suddenly best of friends, no doubt due to the insurance policy Chris was now carrying in her belly. Five months in, it seemed that even the tree was getting into the mood. One day, I looked out to see it had grown a foot overnight and was peppered with red flowers. I jumped on the computer and fired up the chat client, to share this revelation with Chris, on the offchance that she was online. She was.
She had miscarried the night before.
Autumn and Winter came and went, and to Trevor’s credit he supported her throughout. They may not have been happier as such, but the relationship was definitely stronger for it. Throughout, I had a clear view into their living room, as the tree was a barren stick. With Spring, Chris appeared to get her love of life back, and in the evenings we’d often spend hours online, using thousands of dollars worth of computers and ten times that in network infrastructure to chat back and forth across a distance of a little over ten metres.
One night in particular we’d been flirting a little, probably fuelled by red wine I was in the habit of drinking in the evenings after a tough day. There was nothing unusual in this, inasmauch as it was our sordid little secret and we had our boundaries which were fairly well established. Nevertheless, we were careful to delete the histories of our respective PCs after a session. I switched off my monitor, and went to the kitchen to make a coffee, and when the kettle stopped screaming I could briefly hear raised voices and a yelp. I switched off the lights in the kitchen and slid towards the window. At first I thought their lights were off too, but then I realized that the tree was obscuring her window.
After that I had a succession of early starts and late finishes at work, and gave very little thought to the incident. But the following Saturday, as I left to get a newspaper, I looked properly at the tree. Again, it seemed to have put on a growth spurt, and was covered in red flowers. While I knew enough about trees to realize that such things tend to happen when the sun comes back out, I found it vaguely unsettling. I heard a door slam and, partially hidden behind the tree, I waited while Trevor started his car and drove off, very obviously angry.
I watched until his car disappeared, then knocked on her door. I waited, then knocked again. I could head muffled noises, so I knocked again, harder.
‘Who is it?’
‘Me.’
Silence.
‘Can I come in?’
After a moment I heard the chain drop, and the door opened. She was in a white bathrobe, wet, clearly just out of the shower. She looked away quickly, head down. She appeared to be trembling slightly. I moved through the doorway.
‘Hey. I just thought I…’ I began, but she spun around and looked up at me, close. She had a massive bruise on her cheek. I started to ask whether he had done it, but her look said it all. She threw her arms around me and it’s a measure of how thoroughly stunned I was that I completely failed to have a single inappropriate thought about the wet, naked body shuddering against me. I must have been in denial, as it didn’t even occur to me to ask if it was my fault.
…
She stayed with him for another year. Things grew increasingly cool between me and Sharon until one Thursday I left work early with a migraine, and walked through my front door only to bump into Trevor coming out the other way. Sharon was in bed, naked, and didn’t even do me the courtesy of looking embarrassed. I turned and watched Trevor leave. He went straight to his car and drove off. I sat on my porch and glanced next door. The tree was massive. I never saw Trevor again, and Sharon and I never spoke of it. I suppose on some level I felt I deserved it.
You’d be forgiven for thinking, as I’m sure Sharon and Trevor did, that I’d have capitalized on this and jumped straight into bed with Chris. Sorry if I’ve mislead you, but we weren’t like that, not at that stage anyway. I’d spent the past year trying to watch over her and protect her from the thug she’d married for some inexplicable reason. It would have been so very easy to take the opportunity to actually feel that skin and body I’d been imagining for so long, but it would have felt like an abuse of my role of protector.
On the other hand, I’m not a complete idiot. I allowed my wife to believe what ever she wished, and began spending more and more time next door. Some nights we’d just talk until the small hours, other nights we’d just lie on the couch together watching movies. The arrangement appeared to suit Sharon, perhaps balancing the books for her. All in all, we were pretty happy again – well, I was - although I couldn’t help but wonder about Chris’s future. Life was pretty normal, and one night I was sitting at the computer again, when I noticed I couldn’t see Chris’s window at all. Perhaps because I no longer needed to play voyeur, I simply hadn’t noticed how much the tree had grown.
The next day I went outside with my lopping secateurs and began trimming it back. It was late spring, and the tree was fully decked out in leaves, but no flowers. I spent a good two hours trimming it back, then went inside for a break. Sharon was watching television. I made her a coffee and kissed her on the top of the head. She smiled a contented smile. Things really were getting back to normal. I sat next to her and we watched a little TV, then went back outside to clean up the mess.
The tree not only appeared to be at least as bushy as before, but it was covered in red blooms. I sprinted to her front door and pushed it open. I raced through the house, my heart threatening to burst.
‘Chris!’
‘What!’
I pushed open the bathroom door and she stepped out of the shower, and stared at me. It’s amazing how much one can pick up in a brief glance, let alone a lingering look that screams what it is you’ve wanted to hear for as long as you can remember. I stepped towards her, and she held out her hands to me. She took a single step then her feet slid out from beneath her. I grabbed for her hands, but her head hit the edge of the bath anyway and that’s about all I remember except for the red.
…
I tried cutting it down but it grew back. I tried poisoning it but it grew back. I tried digging it out but it broke my back, and now it’s autumn again.
Writers Block
by Tristan Sender
She awoke with a jolt, and sat up in her bed. She had been dreaming of a faraway place, different in so many ways from her own. As she slowly broke away from the dream and reality took hold, her mood dampened at the thought of another day at work. Tristia climbed from her bed and began her daily ritual. She surveyed herself in the full length mirror she had bought at an auction during one of her work trips into the country. She liked most of what she saw. Tristia was five foot one inches tall and had delicate features. Her hands were small and slender, but her fingers were surprisingly long. Her skin was a porcelain white contrasted only by raven black hair, and large coal colored eyes. Two other recent additions of body art also broke up the white landscape on her back. The first black tattoo at the base of her back was a crown, the type a king would wear, and the second just below her right shoulder a shield with a coat of arms, that she had designed herself.
Tristia pulled herself away from the mirror; she didn’t have time for such indulgence, and opened the blinds to reveal the day. It took a moment to register before she took a step back partly in shock but mostly in awe. The sky was not like any she had witnessed before. A thick orange engulfed the world, it was as if the sun rise had moved in and surrounded her home. The only comparison she could make was to when she was a child living in England and had pulled open the curtains to reveal a landscape covered in white snow. This time the feelings of excitement were replaced with fear. Her first reaction was to run down the stairs and open the cupboard beneath. Inside she saw the box piled high with tins of tuna, bottles of water and other necessities. Ben an associate from work who was paranoid about everything had persuaded her to go out and buy an emergency supply of survival food and water, just in case Armageddon was to one day hit her quiet Sydney suburb. She had eventually complied more to shut him up than anything else, she was pleased today that she had.
Tristia felt a little stupid standing naked under her stairs looking at a box of tinned food. She rummaged inside and found the little portable radio that was included in her doomsday survival kit. She turned it on and was relieved to hear the sound of music and voices as she scanned through the stations to find the ABC. The serious reporters soon made her feel even more silly, revealing that this mystical orange world was not the result of nuclear attack, but a dust storm that had blown in from the outback of New South Wales and Queensland. Apparently they hadn’t seen anything like it for at least 20 years, but there was no risk to anyone except the old or chronically ill. She felt a little disappointed, and then guilty for actually being excited at the prospect of Armageddon.
Tristia was a sales rep for a billboard company, but she did not sell advertising space. It was her job to find locations for new billboards and then persuade the owners to allow her company to erect one or more on their property. Her targets varied from large land owners to families excited by the prospect of a little extra income. She had previously worked for a company that erected mobile phone towers but had always felt bad about persuading families to place potentially hazardous mobile waves so close to their loved ones. They used to tell people cigarettes were good for them, and she was sure one day it would come out that having these towers in your backyard or on your roof was a health risk or worse. She didn’t particularly like her job, but she was good at it and it afforded her a lot of alone time. She had always hated the prospect of being cooped up in some open plan office, surrounded by people at every angle, with no where but the toilet cubicle to hide. Tristia was a loner who generally preferred her own company to that of others. She was not interested in the chitter chatter of office politics, or the sex lives of those that sat around her. Unfortunately this lack of interest and desire to keep her personal life personal had always intrigued people. They always wanted to know more about her than she was willing to tell, and the less she opened up the more they tried.
Today Tristia only had to make a few local calls to finalise a couple of contracts with farmers who had land backing on to the M4 motorway. Often her job would take her much further afield for several days at a time. She liked these trips into the country it gave her time to think and dream about the stories that she would one day write.
****************
Her last long trip had been about a month ago and had taken her a long way North. She had driven the nine hours to Byron Bay with only two breaks, one to eat the other to use the bathroom. Byron was not her destination, her sales focus for this trip was further up into Queensland, but it made for a lovely stop over. Her company allowed her two days to make it up to Brisbane and start making sales calls, so driving this section quickly enabled her to spend most of the next day on the beach. These little rest bites gave her a chance to do what she liked most, write. To relax some people drank, others listened to music, Tristia wrote stories. These stories mainly came straight from her dreams, both while she slept and while she drove. When she wrote it was as if the world around her disappeared and she was transported to a new reality. Recently however she had become frustrated with her writing, it was as if everything did not fit or go together in the way that she wanted it to. It was no different that day on the beach; she been trying to start a new story for over a week and had failed. She had thought a day basking in the warm sun looking out over the Pacific Ocean would change this, but it had only made things worse. Her creative energy felt stronger than before, it was as if it was building up inside, but she could not find a way to release it on to the page. She had given up early, put away her notebook and decided to continue her journey north.
Over the next couple of days she concentrated on work finding a few great locations along the A1 highway between Noosa and Bundaberg. She had spent a pleasant night in Noosa but had not felt in the mood for visiting the cafes, bars and beaches that it offered. Her writers block was bothering her, and she felt it best to just get on with the job in hand. After an uneventful night in Bundaberg she headed west. The relative greenery of the coastline had quickly been replaced by a more arid and dusty landscape. The properties grew further and further apart and the horizon seemed to stretch increasingly into the distance. The land felt expansive rugged and real, she loved it out here. After driving for several hours she came across the small village of Rolleston. There she found a little motel where she could park her car right outside the door. The place offered no facilities other than a hard bed a television and a small bathroom with a shower that produced more of a drizzle than a downpour. Tristia was hungry and decided to head out on foot to find some comfort food. She wondered what it was about being alone on the road that made you pine for the guilty pleasures of fried chicken and garlic bread followed by chocolate pudding with custard.
The town offered little more than her motel, its main attraction seemed to be a dusty racecourse on its eastern perimeter. Eventually she came across the town’s local drinking establishment, she wasn’t really a drinker but decided to explore. She realised when it was too late that this wasn’t the sort of place where lone women from the city went to for their entertainment. Inside there was about ten men propped up at the bar in various states of intoxication. The air was thick with swear words and cigarette smoke, it didn’t seem the ban on smoking had reached out here. The darts game playing out on one side of the bar seemed to stop, almost as if the darts had frozen in mid air, as she walked in. It was too late to turn back so she moved sheepishly towards the bar and ordered a beer. It tasted ice cold and refreshing and made her brain ache as she drank nervously fast. It wasn’t long before she was surrounded by four scary looking men. She finished her beer in one huge gulp; her brain pulsed in response to the cold liquid. One of the men immediately offered to buy her another and she felt refusing wouldn’t be the done thing. Acceptance had given the men the right, not that they were asking for it, to come and sit with her. They each gathered a stool and introduced themselves as Linden, Dale, Brett, and Ewen. Linden and Dale were the most outspoken and were quick to explain that they were brothers and local cattle farmers. This seemed to make sense as they were huge muscular lads with leather tanned skin, sun bleached hair, and thick fingers that looked made for working on the land. Their eyes were a deep chocolate brown and glinted with mischief. Brett the local mechanic was shorter than the other two and had dark greasy hair, a well developed beer belly, and small hands with dirty finger nails. His eyes were almost yellow in colour and looked somehow sorrowful. Ewen the smallest of the men was the landlord of the pub they were drinking in. He had curly blond hair and piercing blue eyes that peered out from a face that had seen better days. The first few minutes were a barrage of who, why, where, and, hows, the type of questions she didn’t normally like. Maybe it was the beer, or perhaps the fact that she was in such an alien environment, but she didn’t seem to mind answering. In fact she even got a couple of great leads for billboard sites from Ewen and Dale. Before she knew it she was buying rounds of drinks and had been enlisted to play a few games in their darts team. She had surprised the locals and herself with the skill with which she could throw a dart. By the time she left at around ten she felt she had made some new friends and a couple of potential billboard sites to keep her company happy. Brett who had been the most forward offered to give her a ride home, but she had refused saying she needed to find something to eat and then crash out. He had pointed her in the direction of a local pizza take away that might be open.
Tristia was most certainly merry when she walked outside into the dry hot air, and it must have taken her at least thirty minutes to walk the five hundred meters to find that the pizza place shut a good hour earlier. What was she expecting in a town in the middle of nowhere? She was about to turn around and head home when something caught her attention. It was a smell, one that she recognised but couldn’t immediately put her finger on. A deep low toned luxurious aroma filled her nostrils and intoxicated her imagination. She had to find where this was coming from. As she moved up the street past the pizza shop the smell got stronger, deeper and more complex in nature. She felt like one of the children in the story of the pied piper, except that it was a magical scent, rather than a flute, that she was compelled to follow. She had probably walked fifty meters when she came across a derelict looking old shop. The sign above its window had long since faded away, and all she could make out was the words ‘providor’ and ‘fine’. The window blinds were drawn but there was a flickering light and shadows moving behind. The door was closed and had a large red open sign hanging in it. The odor was so strong now that she knew it had to be coming from inside, but what kind of shop was open at nearly eleven in the evening?
Entering a darkened shop in a strange town in the middle of the night was not the sensible option, but Tristia had never been sensible. The events in the pub earlier and the alcohol in her veins added to her confidence that evening. Before she could change her mind she walked up to the door and knocked twice. There was no answer, so she put her ear to door, and could hear the faint clatter of tools and muffled voices. She had second thoughts but it was too late, the pressure of her face and arm on the door had pushed it open and she stumbled inside. The odor almost smacked her in the face it was deep and intense; she immediately recognised what it was. The smell was of fine leather and reminded her of childhood trips to Brighton beach in her uncle Toby’s Aston Martin, with its hand crafted hide seats and dashboard. Inside the shop there was a small wood paneled room and a large old fashioned timber and glass counter that split the space in two. Behind there were two old men, the first was leaning on the counter writing in what looked like an order book, the second sat further back tapping away on something with a small hammer like object. The room was dimly lit by three ancient looking paraffin lamps which flickered producing eerie shadows around the room. The men seemed unperturbed by their late night visitor and continued to beaver away as she approached. As she got closer she could see behind the glass in the old counter was row upon row of leather writing journals, each was slightly different, in size, colour and design, but equally beautiful as the last. When she reached the counter she could make out that each of these journals had a set of initials and a coat of arms embossed in the bottom right hand corner.
Tristia cleared her throat to make her presence known, and the closest of the men looked up over his steel rimmed glasses and stared straight at her. He had wispy white hair, friendly dark brown eyes and was smiling profusely. “We have been expecting you” he slowly said.
“What do you mean?” she answered in surprise.
“Welcome to James Hardy and Sons fine providers of Journals since 1865. I am Harold Hardy and this is my brother Gregor” he stated closing the book he was writing in with a thud. “Now what type of journal are you looking for today?”
She was bemused by his answer but decided to go with it. She pointed at the counter and remarked “these are all very beautiful, how much would one of them be?”
“Tut, tut, young lady these are not for sale” he sternly replied “each of these have been hand crafted to order. Now if you want us to help you, you will need to tell us a bit more about yourself and the type of stories you plan to write.”
She thought this was not like any conversation she had had in a shop before, perhaps it was all a dream and she had passed out in a ditch somewhere between the pub and the pizza shop. She pinched her self and didn’t wake up, so decided to play along; after all she was beginning to enjoy this dream. She smiled at the old man and replied “Ok where would you like me to start.”
“Come with me “he answered and led her round the counter through to a small office in the back of the shop. The room was piled from floor to ceiling with paperwork and was lit by a single paraffin lamp. There was a small desk in the centre with a shabby sofa on one side and a leather office chair on the other. He beckoned her towards the sofa, and once she had sat took his place opposite. He pulled a notebook from the desk draw and began to question her. She closed her eyes and let her deepest secrets flow out. She told him of the dreams she had, how writing was her only retreat, and of the frustrations she had recently getting anything out on to the page. He acknowledged each of her answers with a long understanding “mmm”. It seemed she had been talking for ages when Harold suddenly stood up cutting her conversation off mid sentence and said “I think we have everything we need, thank you. We will begin your journal immediately, and will send it out as soon as it is ready. We will however need payment in full tonight.” Tristia was at first relieved that they took credit cards, but shocked when Harold returned with the slip for her to sign. The cost was two thousand dollars nearly half a months wages, she signed hoping this was a dream. Harold then led her to the door and with a firm handshake beckoned her good night.
Tristia awoke the next morning fully clothed with a beating head and a dry mouth, her first thought was to remember why she didn’t drink, and the second was to the strange events of yesterday evening. She thought it must have been some kind of drunken dream, she couldn’t even remember how she got home. Then she felt in the pockets of the jeans she was still wearing and pulled out the receipt for two thousand dollars, how stupid could she have been. It would be beans and toast for the rest of the month. Angry with herself she quickly showered, packed up and headed on her way.
On the drive through town she passed by the pizza place and when she reached the shop she had been in the night before slowed and took an inquisitive glance. The window blinds were up and the open sign had been removed from the door. She stopped the car and decided to take a look. On further inspection through the shop window she realised that she had been well and truly had, it wasn’t just the money, she had told Harold some of her deepest secrets. The shop was empty, the antique counter with its journals, the tools, the paraffin lamps were nowhere to be seen, and in the lower corner of the window was a small to let sign.
The rest of her trip passed agonisngly slowly, all Tristia could think of was how foolish she had been.
******************
The orange dust had subsided by lunch time, and completely disappeared by the time Tristia got home. Her only reminder of such a spectacular event was a dirty car and a tickle in the back of her throat. She parked her car right outside the house, climbed out and blindly walked up the couple of stairs to the landing by her door. She was just scrambling for her keys in the bottom of her receipt filled pockets when she noticed below her in front of the door was a box. She leaned over dropping her keys to the floor and wiped the dust residue from its top. It was addressed to her and stamped “Care of Bundaberg Post Office”. It had been nearly two months since her visit to Bundaberg, and she hadn’t ordered, signed up to or bought anything there. The only item she had ordered had been on that drunken night in Rolleston several hundred miles away. She was pretty sure however that in her inebriated state she hadn’t even given Harold or whatever his name was her address. Tristia had been so upset by the whole incident she had pretty much been able to put it out of her mind, and would have completely forgotten of it by now if it hadn’t been for the fact she was still eating beans on toast for dinner.
Tristia was good at holding back gratification. She was always last to open her presents at Christmas time; the anticipation of what was inside was usually more exciting than actually finding out. Today it was difficult, but she forced herself to make a cup of tea before returning to the box from Bundaberg. After taking a couple of sips she could wait no longer and cut open the box. As she pulled open the cardboard and peered in her nostrils were filled with the deep tones of fine leather. There in the bottom was the most beautiful journal she had ever seen. It was somewhere between A4 and A3 in size, made from thick chocolaty leather, and embossed in the bottom right hand corner were her initials and something quite surprising. It was a coat of arms similar to those she had seen in the shop, but this was identical to the one she had designed and had tattooed on her back. Tristia felt bewildered and suddenly quite emotional, she began to cry slowly at first and then deeply like never before. Her big salty tears landed with a patter on top of her new journal, and the leather slowly soaked them up. After a few minutes she suddenly felt much better as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She opened up the journal to reveal several hundred cream sheets of parchment and a letter lying on top.
Dear Tristia
Thank you for your order of a lifetime supply of journals from James Hardy and Sons. Included with this purchase are a silver fountain pen, blue ink and blotting paper to get you started. When you have filled this journal please send us a letter to PO Box 49 at Bundaberg post office, outlining how your writing is going and anything you are having difficulty with, and we will create an appropriate journal for you.
Remember great writers have to be ready to share their innermost thoughts and feelings with the world. Don’t be afraid, when it is time just let go.
Best wishes and good luck,
Harold Hardy
Tristia laughed like she was a girl again, and then thought for a while before rummaging in the box and pulling out the silver pen, ink and blotting paper. The pen had her initials engraved in the side and a metal cartridge for the ink inside. She unscrewed the lid to the ink, dipped the pen into it and sucked up the thick blue liquid. She took a deep breath placed the nib of her pen onto the first page of parchment, breathed out and let go…
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