A Box From Bundaberg (Tristan Sender)

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…