The wheels of the Landcruiser ute spun in the dirt for just a second as Tim left the light vehicle go-line. He knew he shouldn’t have done it, but it gave him at least some satisfaction. He’d just had what his boss George had called a “Performance coaching discussion”. It had felt to Tim more like a good old-fashioned chewing out.
Unfair. That was the best word to describe it. There were other, harsher, cruder words that came to his mind, and to his lips, but “unfair” was what stuck with him. What was the exact phrase? Carelessness – that was it, no – “lack of attention to detail”. How many details were there to pay attention to when you pushed dirt and rock and coal around with a D11 bulldozer?
Tim felt the back-end go sideways – just a little – as he turned left onto the haul road. He realised as he did it that he hadn’t looked right, at all. He checked his mirror quickly, and saw no vehicles. Lucky. He slammed it into second.
“At least something’s going my way today,” he said aloud, to himself. He shook his head at his own stupidity. Any one of the rear-dump trucks driving along the haul road could easily have squashed him and his ute to just a few inches thick, if it’d been there to run him over.
Soon enough, Tim was complaining to himself about his boss again. “Inattention to detail,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “Where does she get this stuff from?”
Suddenly Tim grabbed the two-way radio, and called up the OCE, and told him he was entering the pit area. White lie, of course. Entering – entered – it was a grey area.
He tried to relax as he drove down the haul road. It was hard to relax. With things the way they were at home: first with the kids, and now with the wife talking about “taking some time to re-evaluate things,” – Tim muttered that phrase to himself again. Yeah, he thought, it’s bad enough at home, without George making a mountain out of a molehill. She was normally okay, but then, nobody’s perfect. What a way to come back onto shift from his days off.
Tim was looking forward to the solitude of working on the dozer. He’d probably even have crib on the machine today, he thought, the way he was feeling about people in general.
He pulled up behind his dozer, grabbed his crib bag and went up onto the machine. He snatched up the pre-start book, hoping it’d been done for the shift already, which it hadn’t. He got out of the cab, checked the oil and coolant in the engine bay and then glanced at the tracks. He got back into the machine and ticked off the rest of the prestart. If it was okay last shift, it’ll be okay now. He copied some comment about a problem with the mirror from the last prestart sheet. He tossed the pre-start book aside and then started up the engine. The throbbing of the diesel engine made him feel better almost immediately. After a minute to warm up the beast, he opened up the throttle, and smiled for the first time that day.
He looked out at the job in front of him: just a whole lot of cleaning up of the coal seam, really. Good, solitary work – no-one to mess things up for him. Tim lifted the blade, and then checked his mirrors before backing up. Once he’d gone back about as far as he thought he needed, he looked back in front of him and saw something that he didn’t recognise at first; not for about five seconds. Then he realised that the odd-shaped little thing was what used to be a Landcruiser ute. The ute he’d parked there himself.
“So that,” he said to himself, as he shook his head, “Is what she meant by ‘lack of attention to detail’.”
This story first appeared in Shift Miner Magazine.
Showing posts with label australia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label australia. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Monday, April 4, 2011
Let's Go
Tony walked up toward the open garage door. A Harley Davidson motorcyle had been wheeled back out of the garage onto the driveway. The water mark was up over the headlight.
Inside the garage stood a man, looking dazed.
Tony said, “G'day. We heard you could do with a hand.”
The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm Keith.”
“Tony.” Tony introduced the others. “So Keith, do you have a plan?”
“Not really.” Keith shrugged. “Never done this before.”
“Well, we have. A couple of times.”
A few of the blokes chuckled. They'd been working together four days straight now, eleven hours a day, cleaning the mud and muck out of people's homes. Any people: young families and old ladies, the well-to-do and the dirt poor. The flood had put the normal social distinctions on hold for a while, and replaced them with new ones. Now there were those whose homes were flooded, and those whose weren't; those who helped others, and those who didn't; those with insurance, and those without.
Keith raised his hands. “Look Tony, if you're gonna help, you're in charge.”
Tony nodded. “Good. Let's have a look.”
The water had come up waist high through the house. That meant any stuff up on the benches was borderline, and that cupboards and fridges may have floated around. There was a step up from the garage into the house, with no lip on the threshold; good for hosing out.
Inside, the house stank, badly. There was the usual flood smell of mud and rotting carpets, but this had a little something extra: sewage. Every house stank, but these were the worst, and there was no getting used to it. They all had to work to hold back the urge to vomit.
Out the back was a covered patio, beyond that was a muddy lawn.
Tony made some quick decisions, then spoke up loudly so that everyone could here. “All right, here's the plan. We'll get the patio hosed out and clean first. Give it a good scrub. That'll be for the clean and dry stuff.” He turned to Keith. “Have you taken photos of everything for insurance.”
“Don't have any.”
“Right. That makes it simple. Everything that's destroyed, goes out on the footpath. If something may be salvageable, out on the back lawn. Let's go.”
Keith took Tony aside for a moment. “Why not put the clean stuff in the garage?”
“It's lower than the house, and is the best place to push all the water out with squidgees.”
“Never thought of that.”
“Neither did we, the first time.” Tim smiled. “Come on mate, let's start.”
Three guys started cleaning down the patio. Everyone else started carrying wrecked stuff out to the front of the house. There was a lot of wrecked stuff.
“Maybe we could wash the mud out of the sofas,” said Keith, hesitantly.
“Don't think of it as mud,” said Tim. “Think of it as poo.”
“Why's that?”
“Because there's plenty in all this.”
“Hey?”
“Did you sand-bag every drain and every toilet bowl?”
“Well, no.”
“Well, your toilets flush both ways mate.”
Keith went pale, then vomited were he stood, onto the lounge-room floor. Two other blokes went out in sympathy. Tim could feel it in the back of his throat but managed to keep it together. He took a hose and washed the spew out into the garage, and down the driveway.
After an hour of hot, sweaty work, everything that was clean and dry had been removed to the patio. The lounge and dining room were empty of everything, including carpet and underlay. One man remained, lifting up the timber strips around the room that the carpet had once been nailed to. Everyone else had moved onto the bedrooms.
In another hour, they'd finished hosing out the mud.
Tim called his team together. “Time for lunch,” he said. “Let's go.”
This story was first published in Issue 104 of Shift Miner Magazine. It was inspired by my experiences in the clean-ups of both the 2008 and 2010 floods in Emerald; though the 2010 flood was most vivid in my mind. The 2010 floods happened (mostly) between Christmas and New Year, with most of the clean-up in the first weeks of January, before the Brisbane floods hit.
Feel free to share your flood experiences by posting a comment.
Inside the garage stood a man, looking dazed.
Tony said, “G'day. We heard you could do with a hand.”
The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm Keith.”
“Tony.” Tony introduced the others. “So Keith, do you have a plan?”
“Not really.” Keith shrugged. “Never done this before.”
“Well, we have. A couple of times.”
A few of the blokes chuckled. They'd been working together four days straight now, eleven hours a day, cleaning the mud and muck out of people's homes. Any people: young families and old ladies, the well-to-do and the dirt poor. The flood had put the normal social distinctions on hold for a while, and replaced them with new ones. Now there were those whose homes were flooded, and those whose weren't; those who helped others, and those who didn't; those with insurance, and those without.
Keith raised his hands. “Look Tony, if you're gonna help, you're in charge.”
Tony nodded. “Good. Let's have a look.”
The water had come up waist high through the house. That meant any stuff up on the benches was borderline, and that cupboards and fridges may have floated around. There was a step up from the garage into the house, with no lip on the threshold; good for hosing out.
Inside, the house stank, badly. There was the usual flood smell of mud and rotting carpets, but this had a little something extra: sewage. Every house stank, but these were the worst, and there was no getting used to it. They all had to work to hold back the urge to vomit.
Out the back was a covered patio, beyond that was a muddy lawn.
Tony made some quick decisions, then spoke up loudly so that everyone could here. “All right, here's the plan. We'll get the patio hosed out and clean first. Give it a good scrub. That'll be for the clean and dry stuff.” He turned to Keith. “Have you taken photos of everything for insurance.”
“Don't have any.”
“Right. That makes it simple. Everything that's destroyed, goes out on the footpath. If something may be salvageable, out on the back lawn. Let's go.”
Keith took Tony aside for a moment. “Why not put the clean stuff in the garage?”
“It's lower than the house, and is the best place to push all the water out with squidgees.”
“Never thought of that.”
“Neither did we, the first time.” Tim smiled. “Come on mate, let's start.”
Three guys started cleaning down the patio. Everyone else started carrying wrecked stuff out to the front of the house. There was a lot of wrecked stuff.
“Maybe we could wash the mud out of the sofas,” said Keith, hesitantly.
“Don't think of it as mud,” said Tim. “Think of it as poo.”
“Why's that?”
“Because there's plenty in all this.”
“Hey?”
“Did you sand-bag every drain and every toilet bowl?”
“Well, no.”
“Well, your toilets flush both ways mate.”
Keith went pale, then vomited were he stood, onto the lounge-room floor. Two other blokes went out in sympathy. Tim could feel it in the back of his throat but managed to keep it together. He took a hose and washed the spew out into the garage, and down the driveway.
After an hour of hot, sweaty work, everything that was clean and dry had been removed to the patio. The lounge and dining room were empty of everything, including carpet and underlay. One man remained, lifting up the timber strips around the room that the carpet had once been nailed to. Everyone else had moved onto the bedrooms.
In another hour, they'd finished hosing out the mud.
Tim called his team together. “Time for lunch,” he said. “Let's go.”
This story was first published in Issue 104 of Shift Miner Magazine. It was inspired by my experiences in the clean-ups of both the 2008 and 2010 floods in Emerald; though the 2010 flood was most vivid in my mind. The 2010 floods happened (mostly) between Christmas and New Year, with most of the clean-up in the first weeks of January, before the Brisbane floods hit.
Feel free to share your flood experiences by posting a comment.
Monday, August 9, 2010
A Part of This Australian Society
This is my latest story in edition 92 of Shift Miner Magazine. The online version of this edition is here. Enjoy!
"Have you been in Australia long, Dr Ramji?"
"Please Mark, just be calling me Ramji. I have been here twelve years. I came first to study medicine at UQ."
"Wow." Mark was lying face down on the examination bench, waiting for Ramji to remove a mole from the back of his leg.
"Can you feel that?" said Ramji.
"Feel what?"
"Good, the anaesthetic is working just fine. I was poking your leg with the point of my scalpel."
"Well, I didn't feel a thing. You can start now, I suppose."
"I am already starting, Mark. Please be lying very still."
Mark lay very still. The pulling and tugging as Ramji cut into his leg felt weird. "Can I ask you a personal question, Ramji?"
"Sure. Normally it is I that is asking the personal questions."
Mark laughed, and relaxed a little. "Are you a Muslim; is that why you have that … your head covered?"
"No, Mark," said Ramji, "I am not a Muslim. This is a turban I have on my head. I am Sikh."
"You're sick?"
"No, I am not ill. I am a Sikh. It is a religion, from my native India."
"Fair dinkum?" said Mark. "I though it was mainly Muslims in India."
"Actually, Hindus are by far making up the biggest Indian religion. Then there are many others, like Muslims, and Christians, and us Sikhs, and many, many others. I am ready to start your suturing now."
"My what?"
"Your sutures. Stitches."
"Cool. I suppose you have a lot of people ask about your turban?"
"Actually, no. You are the first in about one year. I am thinking people are scared they will be offending me."
"Have I offended you?"
"
Good gracious, no."
"That good."
Ramji laughed. "Yes," he said. "Especially as it is I that is having the scalpel."
Mark laughed too.
Ramji said, "May I ask what are your religious beliefs, Mark?"
"I've got to say, I don't like religions, myself."
"Oh?"
"It causes so much conflict."
"That is true; there is much religious conflict. But then, people are always finding some things to be fighting about. Stopping the religions is not enough to be stopping all the wars. Your leg is all finished now Mark."
Mark sat up on the bench and looked at the dressing on his leg and poiked at the skin around it, feeling where the anaesthetic had deadened his leg. "So what's your answer?"
"To make world peace?"
"To stopping religious violence, and conflict."
"Respect, and freedom, and not taking revenge. I have the freedom to be a Sikh without fear; and my neighbour, a Christian, and my other neighbour, perhaps like you, with having no religion at all."
"But aren't people always killing each other about religion in India?"
"True, it is happening sometimes," said Ramji, his head rocking from side to side. "That is one very big reason for why I am loving Australia. I did not stay here for the taste of the food."
Mark laughed, but he wasn't convinced. "But doesn't people coming here, and keeping their own religions, stop them from being part of Australian society?"
Ramji made a tut-tut sound. "Mark, my friend, I am a doctor, here in Emerald, removing a mole and maybe cancer from your leg. Am I not right now being a part of this Australian society?"
"Have you been in Australia long, Dr Ramji?"
"Please Mark, just be calling me Ramji. I have been here twelve years. I came first to study medicine at UQ."
"Wow." Mark was lying face down on the examination bench, waiting for Ramji to remove a mole from the back of his leg.
"Can you feel that?" said Ramji.
"Feel what?"
"Good, the anaesthetic is working just fine. I was poking your leg with the point of my scalpel."
"Well, I didn't feel a thing. You can start now, I suppose."
"I am already starting, Mark. Please be lying very still."
Mark lay very still. The pulling and tugging as Ramji cut into his leg felt weird. "Can I ask you a personal question, Ramji?"
"Sure. Normally it is I that is asking the personal questions."
Mark laughed, and relaxed a little. "Are you a Muslim; is that why you have that … your head covered?"
"No, Mark," said Ramji, "I am not a Muslim. This is a turban I have on my head. I am Sikh."
"You're sick?"
"No, I am not ill. I am a Sikh. It is a religion, from my native India."
"Fair dinkum?" said Mark. "I though it was mainly Muslims in India."
"Actually, Hindus are by far making up the biggest Indian religion. Then there are many others, like Muslims, and Christians, and us Sikhs, and many, many others. I am ready to start your suturing now."
"My what?"
"Your sutures. Stitches."
"Cool. I suppose you have a lot of people ask about your turban?"
"Actually, no. You are the first in about one year. I am thinking people are scared they will be offending me."
"Have I offended you?"
"
Good gracious, no."
"That good."
Ramji laughed. "Yes," he said. "Especially as it is I that is having the scalpel."
Mark laughed too.
Ramji said, "May I ask what are your religious beliefs, Mark?"
"I've got to say, I don't like religions, myself."
"Oh?"
"It causes so much conflict."
"That is true; there is much religious conflict. But then, people are always finding some things to be fighting about. Stopping the religions is not enough to be stopping all the wars. Your leg is all finished now Mark."
Mark sat up on the bench and looked at the dressing on his leg and poiked at the skin around it, feeling where the anaesthetic had deadened his leg. "So what's your answer?"
"To make world peace?"
"To stopping religious violence, and conflict."
"Respect, and freedom, and not taking revenge. I have the freedom to be a Sikh without fear; and my neighbour, a Christian, and my other neighbour, perhaps like you, with having no religion at all."
"But aren't people always killing each other about religion in India?"
"True, it is happening sometimes," said Ramji, his head rocking from side to side. "That is one very big reason for why I am loving Australia. I did not stay here for the taste of the food."
Mark laughed, but he wasn't convinced. "But doesn't people coming here, and keeping their own religions, stop them from being part of Australian society?"
Ramji made a tut-tut sound. "Mark, my friend, I am a doctor, here in Emerald, removing a mole and maybe cancer from your leg. Am I not right now being a part of this Australian society?"
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Two Year Plan
This story was published today in Issue 89 issue of Shift Miner Magazine. I hope this isn't your story too...
Callum and Mary had money problems. They weren't in debt, except for their credit card, but each fortnight was a struggle. They tried not to argue about money, but sometimes they did. One Friday evening, Mary put her solution to Callum. “I think we should do two or three years in the mines,” she said.
Mary had dropped hints like this before, and Callum had been able to deflect them, till now. He loved his job, and his friends were in Rocky. So were hers. “What about your friends,” he asked her.
“I think we need to make a small sacrifice for a while. We can still come into Rocky to socialise, and shop, every month or so.”
Mary took Callum through the numbers. “If we live on what we do now, plus a bit, we should be able to save two-thousand dollars a month. In two years, we could save seventy-eight thousand dollars; more with interest.
That got Callum's attention. He applied for six jobs from Saturday's paper. Over the next weeks, he got three interviews and an offer with a contractor based in Moranbah. He accepted it.
The plan took an early hit when they went to find a house. Rents were a little higher than they'd expected. “This is extortion,” said Callum.
The property manager mumbled something about supply and demand. They paid the rent, every week, because they needed a place to live. Still, it felt dirty paying that sort of money.
The rent wasn't the end of it. “Can you believe tomatoes cost six dollars a kilo here?” said Mary, after Callum's first day on the job.
“Is that bad?” said Callum. “It's been a while since I bought a tomato.”
“Yes, it's bad.”
It wasn't just tomatoes that were more expensive; everything was.
The first pay-packet had some surprises, too. “Are you sure this is right?” said Callum, as he went though the pay-slip. They must be taking too much tax, surely!”
They decided to sacrifice the discounted private health insurance that came with the package to save more money. It turned out that the Medicare levy surcharge – the extra tax for not having private health insurance – costed more than the insurance itself.
Mary crunched the numbers again. “I think we can still save thirty-thousand in two years,” she said.
The trips to Rocky didn't really happen. The first attempt cost them just over five hundred dollars, not including the shopping. They went to Mackay to shop, but decided to try and avoid that. Still, they needed to get out of town sometimes to keep from going nuts.
Other things helped, to keep them sane. Mary didn't need much convincing to get a big flat-screen TV. They negotiated a good price on a surround sound system, to complete the home theatre setup. Sometimes Mary got her hair or nails done in town, just for something to do. When their station wagon went north of two-hundred thousand kilometres, they leased a Prado.
When they finished their their two years; they had saved only ten thousand dollars. “Well, we improved and upgraded a lot of things,” said Callum. “And we had our first overseas holiday.”
Callum said maybe they should do another two years, and really knuckle down and save. Mary did mention the idea of going overseas, to somewhere like Indonesia, to really save some serious money, but Callum managed to avoid that subject, so far.
Monday, June 14, 2010
It's Got to That Stage
The two old ladies carried their coffees to the only table in the crowded airport café with spare seats. A young man was already at the table, hammering away at the keys to his laptop computer, drinking a beer. He tried to ignore them.
One of the ladies was clearly younger than the other, and plumper. She said, "I've got a perfectly good computer at home, but I don't use it."
The older, skinny lady said, "I'll have to get lessons, to use mine."
"It's only just for emailing all my children."
"I've got a perfectly good computer, but I don't need all the other jazz. I can't be bothered; too many other things on my mind."
The younger lady nodded. "Too much else to do."
"I'm going down to…," said the older lady, then hesitated.
"Urangan."
"Yes, Urangan. My youngest daughter is there, and all her little ones."
The plumper lady looked at the lunch board. "They have special lunches for seven dollars ninety."
"That's good. Sophie has a little boy at school there. I don't think Felix has started school yet."
"Do you know what street she's in?" asked the younger lady, still eying the menu.
The older lady reached down for her purse.
"No, no, don't get it."
"I've no idea," said the older lady, going through the purse.
"Don't worry. I just wondered if she lived near me."
"I stay with my son and his wife. I have so much fun with my great-grandchildren." She continued looking through the purse.
The younger lady admitted, "I don't have any greats yet. Just grandchildren."
"I've got six grand and six great," said the older lady. She was distracted now. "I haven't got her address. I know its Urangan."
"Please, don't worry."
"I thought I had it." She continued looking through her purse for a few moments, then put it away.
The plump lady said, "It might be one of the new estates."
"No, they bought a two-storey house."
"Townhouse. They're popping up everywhere."
"No, I don't think it's new."
The younger lady said, "My son in law runs the sky diving place."
"There used to be a young chap in the unit next to me. His daughter used to sky-dive. He was working for this flying school attached to the air port. It was a tiny little airport."
"Is Melbourne home for you?"
"Ah," said the older lady. She paused, and groaned. "I live there, yes"
"What part of Melbourne are you in?"
"Albion."
"My daughter is in Hillside."
"Oh yes?" said the older lady.
"That's not far from Albion. She's a manager at Coles there."
"Oh, I don’t go to Coles, as it is. I go to Safeway."
"I go to Woolies. Which is Safeway up here."
The older lady didn't respond, so the younger one added. "It's got to that stage, I only see her once a year."
"Well, I haven't seen Sofie and the children since Easter."
"Oh."
One of the ladies was clearly younger than the other, and plumper. She said, "I've got a perfectly good computer at home, but I don't use it."
The older, skinny lady said, "I'll have to get lessons, to use mine."
"It's only just for emailing all my children."
"I've got a perfectly good computer, but I don't need all the other jazz. I can't be bothered; too many other things on my mind."
The younger lady nodded. "Too much else to do."
"I'm going down to…," said the older lady, then hesitated.
"Urangan."
"Yes, Urangan. My youngest daughter is there, and all her little ones."
The plumper lady looked at the lunch board. "They have special lunches for seven dollars ninety."
"That's good. Sophie has a little boy at school there. I don't think Felix has started school yet."
"Do you know what street she's in?" asked the younger lady, still eying the menu.
The older lady reached down for her purse.
"No, no, don't get it."
"I've no idea," said the older lady, going through the purse.
"Don't worry. I just wondered if she lived near me."
"I stay with my son and his wife. I have so much fun with my great-grandchildren." She continued looking through the purse.
The younger lady admitted, "I don't have any greats yet. Just grandchildren."
"I've got six grand and six great," said the older lady. She was distracted now. "I haven't got her address. I know its Urangan."
"Please, don't worry."
"I thought I had it." She continued looking through her purse for a few moments, then put it away.
The plump lady said, "It might be one of the new estates."
"No, they bought a two-storey house."
"Townhouse. They're popping up everywhere."
"No, I don't think it's new."
The younger lady said, "My son in law runs the sky diving place."
"There used to be a young chap in the unit next to me. His daughter used to sky-dive. He was working for this flying school attached to the air port. It was a tiny little airport."
"Is Melbourne home for you?"
"Ah," said the older lady. She paused, and groaned. "I live there, yes"
"What part of Melbourne are you in?"
"Albion."
"My daughter is in Hillside."
"Oh yes?" said the older lady.
"That's not far from Albion. She's a manager at Coles there."
"Oh, I don’t go to Coles, as it is. I go to Safeway."
"I go to Woolies. Which is Safeway up here."
The older lady didn't respond, so the younger one added. "It's got to that stage, I only see her once a year."
"Well, I haven't seen Sofie and the children since Easter."
"Oh."
Friday, June 11, 2010
Published at Full of Crow!
Standing Up For Peace is a very short flash fiction piece of mine that has just been published in the July 2010 Quarterly Issue of Full of Crow Fiction. Many thanks to Lynn Alexander, the editor, for including this piece. Best wishes also to Paul Corman-Roberts, who is now taking on the role of editor of the Full of Crow Fiction Section.
Please have a read of the July 2010 Issue. I hope you enjoy Standing Up For Peace, and I look forward to your comments.
Please have a read of the July 2010 Issue. I hope you enjoy Standing Up For Peace, and I look forward to your comments.
Monday, March 8, 2010
The Motivator
This story was originally published in the 5 minute fiction column of Issue 76 of Shift Miner Magazine. I previously blogged about this story here.
This is a deviation from my usual stories and has a sadder theme. I got some varied feedback on this story. This included a someone telling me that they felt that I was judging people who chose to do fly-in-fly-out type of work. He seemed to take it personally; perhaps I hit a nerve.
What do you think?
The Motivator
Trent left the job he loved to chase the pay packets that the coal mines were offering. He found a job as a boilermaker for a contracting company; though, he didn't like the work at all. He loathed the early morning starts, getting up in the dark. Welding, cutting and gouging steel in the Central Queensland heat sapped his strength and his will. In a way, the work was always changing: a dragline bucket, a stacker-reclaimer, a construction job. Really though, the work never changed.
From the very start, Trent's only reason for working in the mines was to give his family the financial security and opportunities they deserved. He kept himself going through the weeks, months and years because this motivation was so close to his heart, literally. In his left shirt pocket, Trent kept his first payslip, with a photo of his wife Alison, and their two little girls, Caitlin and Emily, glued to the back. He called it his Motivator. He had plasticised his Motivator with a laminator to protect it from the dirt, sweat and coal dust. Over time it had become covered in creases and folds, and the plastic was peeling apart at the corners. During crib times, or the lonely nights in the camp, Trent would take out his motivator to remind himself of the reasons he was sweating in the heat and the dust, and to muster the strength to get up and get back to work.
He'd done all this for them; they knew that. They must know that. Their new life had its costs, of course. Trent hadn't been there when Caitlin lost her first tooth. He was on site when Emily fell down the stairs and cut her head open. He'd offered to come home on the next plane, but no, she said, we managed okay. She didn't add, “without you”, but he'd felt it.
They'd talked about it, after he'd finished that tour: if he should leave the mines and come back. It wouldn't work, she said, with the mortgage on the home, and the car repayments, and the private school fees. He said fine, and that he was only doing it for them anyway; he was willing to pay the price.
They seemed to manage okay, on the whole; but Trent was rarely around for the little things. He could book leave and twist his boss's arm to make time for the big occasions, but the little things slipped by; one at a time, over the years.
One day he arrived home for his days off, exhausted, to an empty house. “We've grown apart,” she said when he found her, eventually, at her mother's place. “You're not the same person any more, and neither am I.”
“I did all this for you,” said Trent.
“I know, I know; but it's not going to work. Don't worry about us, we'll manage okay.”
There were a lot of things Trent wanted to say then, but he didn't. He couldn't find the words, so he stood there like an idiot, with his mouth open. He thought of things he could have said, later.
Trent keeps working in the mines on the roster he still hates. He still does it for the girls, the two little ones mostly. He hopes that one day soon they won't despise him like they do now; that they'll grow out of it. He hopes that Alison will come back to him. A stupid hope, he knows, but it's still his hope. He can forget the pain and the past with the hard work and the hot sun and the scorching steel. He can forget until crib time, when he pulls out his motivator, and clenches his jaw to hold back the tears.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Silent Treatment
"How you doing?" said Ian, as he sat down beside Mandy on the bench. It was hot out in the sun. The gum tree overhead gave a small patch of shade, but it didn't cover the bench.
Mandy didn't look at him. She kept her eyes on the kookaburra sitting in the other gum tree, across the lawn. It was watching her too. "Fine," she said.
Ian looked for a smile, or anything, in her face. No smile, but she seemed to have a tic in her left cheek. "I'm really sorry," he said, "how things turned out."
"You're sorry?"
Ian flinched. He nodded. "Yes, I am."
She said nothing now, though she seemed to be crying.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. I only ever wanted what was best for you." The lines were rehearsed, but he found it hard to go on. The words wouldn't come. It was too hot. His legs were sweating in his suit pants and beginning to itch.
Mandy still said nothing. She was definitely crying. Great. The silent treatment.
Ian tried one last time. "I probably should have told you sooner, how I felt."
Now she turned to look at him. Her eyes were red and the tears had eroded little streaks down through her makeup. "Probably?" She had that inquisition tone again; using his words back at him as questions. It felt so hateful.
"Okay," said Ian. "Definitely. I definitely should have told you. I just never thought about it properly before today in those words, you know? And then he said, 'until death do you part'. I just freaked out. I realised I'm not ready for that. It wouldn't have been fair to you to say, 'I do.'" He paused, and then added, "I'll help cover the costs, of course, for the catering, and the wedding dress."
"Just go away." She turned to looked at the kookaburra again.
A breeze came through the church yard and blew her veil up into Ian's face. He stood up, stretching his legs and jiggling his pants where they itched. "Fair enough," he said. He left the church grounds by jumping the back fence. It didn't seem like a good time to mingle with the family.
Mandy didn't look at him. She kept her eyes on the kookaburra sitting in the other gum tree, across the lawn. It was watching her too. "Fine," she said.
Ian looked for a smile, or anything, in her face. No smile, but she seemed to have a tic in her left cheek. "I'm really sorry," he said, "how things turned out."
"You're sorry?"
Ian flinched. He nodded. "Yes, I am."
She said nothing now, though she seemed to be crying.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. I only ever wanted what was best for you." The lines were rehearsed, but he found it hard to go on. The words wouldn't come. It was too hot. His legs were sweating in his suit pants and beginning to itch.
Mandy still said nothing. She was definitely crying. Great. The silent treatment.
Ian tried one last time. "I probably should have told you sooner, how I felt."
Now she turned to look at him. Her eyes were red and the tears had eroded little streaks down through her makeup. "Probably?" She had that inquisition tone again; using his words back at him as questions. It felt so hateful.
"Okay," said Ian. "Definitely. I definitely should have told you. I just never thought about it properly before today in those words, you know? And then he said, 'until death do you part'. I just freaked out. I realised I'm not ready for that. It wouldn't have been fair to you to say, 'I do.'" He paused, and then added, "I'll help cover the costs, of course, for the catering, and the wedding dress."
"Just go away." She turned to looked at the kookaburra again.
A breeze came through the church yard and blew her veil up into Ian's face. He stood up, stretching his legs and jiggling his pants where they itched. "Fair enough," he said. He left the church grounds by jumping the back fence. It didn't seem like a good time to mingle with the family.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Island
Ken sits at the table, crying. The hut is brightly lit by a hissing kerosene lantern, the centre of a whirling mass of bugs. The only sound to be heard from outside the hut is the chirping of a few cicadas. You don't hear and see other people on The Island. Not in 1964.
It is Ken's sixth night alone. A week ago, he felt like a man, sixteen years old and ready for anything. Ready even to work the family farm during the week, so Dad could get a paying job, things are so tight. So tight they can't even spare the price of a wireless radio to keep Ken company.
It isn't a real island, but that makes no difference. You can only get there by boat. The Island is surrounded by the mouth of the Calliope River to the east and south, the sea to the north, and impassable mud flats in between. The salty sea breeze is always mingled with the stink of mud and mangroves.
The days are a blur. The hard work, the clear sky and the sun help Ken forget his isolation. He talks to himself and sings Sunday School songs as he prunes fruit trees and tends the small crops.
The nights are long and dark and lonely. Ken had thought it would get better, but it didn't. Each night is worse than the last. The burden on his soul does not ease, it is only added to. Ken wonders how long he can continue like this, before he yields to the weight of his own pity.
“No!” Ken suddenly shouts at the table, thumping it with his fist. “No! No! No!” He wipes his eyes and cheeks with his sleeves. He stands up, pushing his chair back onto the ground. As he strides to the door, he sucks his nose clear of the teary snot, rasps it from his throat to his mouth, and then spits it out through the door, into the darkness. He stands a long time in the doorway, the breeze on his face, and resolves to be the fool of his emotions no longer.
Crying doesn't help. It won't change anything. It didn't bring my mother back, and it's killing me now. I'm not going to get through this life, dragging this load. It's over. It stops now.
And so Ken survives those nine months, working on The Island, in a kind of solitary confinement. Dad comes to help him each Saturday morning and takes him home to Gladstone in the afternoon. After the Sunday nap, he drops Ken back onto The Island for another week.
Ken never cries again, no matter the pain. He tells you today, "It did me a lot of good, my time on The Island: it taught me a lot about life."
It is Ken's sixth night alone. A week ago, he felt like a man, sixteen years old and ready for anything. Ready even to work the family farm during the week, so Dad could get a paying job, things are so tight. So tight they can't even spare the price of a wireless radio to keep Ken company.
It isn't a real island, but that makes no difference. You can only get there by boat. The Island is surrounded by the mouth of the Calliope River to the east and south, the sea to the north, and impassable mud flats in between. The salty sea breeze is always mingled with the stink of mud and mangroves.
The days are a blur. The hard work, the clear sky and the sun help Ken forget his isolation. He talks to himself and sings Sunday School songs as he prunes fruit trees and tends the small crops.
The nights are long and dark and lonely. Ken had thought it would get better, but it didn't. Each night is worse than the last. The burden on his soul does not ease, it is only added to. Ken wonders how long he can continue like this, before he yields to the weight of his own pity.
“No!” Ken suddenly shouts at the table, thumping it with his fist. “No! No! No!” He wipes his eyes and cheeks with his sleeves. He stands up, pushing his chair back onto the ground. As he strides to the door, he sucks his nose clear of the teary snot, rasps it from his throat to his mouth, and then spits it out through the door, into the darkness. He stands a long time in the doorway, the breeze on his face, and resolves to be the fool of his emotions no longer.
Crying doesn't help. It won't change anything. It didn't bring my mother back, and it's killing me now. I'm not going to get through this life, dragging this load. It's over. It stops now.
And so Ken survives those nine months, working on The Island, in a kind of solitary confinement. Dad comes to help him each Saturday morning and takes him home to Gladstone in the afternoon. After the Sunday nap, he drops Ken back onto The Island for another week.
Ken never cries again, no matter the pain. He tells you today, "It did me a lot of good, my time on The Island: it taught me a lot about life."
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