The Scriveners Review.

To the Mid-Murray Region.                                                                                                 Vol. 1..#3.

           A sampler taste of the colour and texture of living past and present in The Murray Mallee.

                                        Two stories and four poems by Helen Tuxford and Joe Carli.

Joyce Delivers the Flowers.

“Joyce Hartingdale .. Secretary” the writing on the triangular wedge of wood prominent at the front of her desk was written in bright, gold paint. It was there the first day she came to the job at the office situated at the front of the “Shoebridge Furniture Factory”. A job she had come all the way from Manchester, England for…well…it was not just the job, but she had applied for the secretarial job while home in England, fresh graduated from the secretarial college where she had seen the advertisement seeking young ladies to come to the Australian colonies for a bright, fresh life…or at least that is how Joyce saw it… and she took it.

The telegram from her mother back in Manchester sat on the passenger’s seat of the Morris Minor 1000 sedan she was at that very moment driving out to the country town of Kanmantoo so as to attend the funeral of an obscure uncle who had just passed away.

“ Uncle Stan has died”. The telegram started “ Funeral at Kanmantoo Ch of Eng 1pm. Fri. Chance meet family..go!” ..and it was signed : “Mother”.

Joyce, having no friends before she came to this new country, was keen to make contact with those distant relatives her mother had told her lived in the country there..and what better way to introduce oneself than at a funeral..She had her Mothers telegram handy as a note of introduction when she arrived at the church.

It was nice of Mr. Shoebridge to allow her the day off to attend the funeral, and considering that she had only been employed for one month, it gave credibility to how high her secretarial skills were held in the office. In fact, the whole experience of her new life in the antipodes was working out just fine..the weather was much to her liking, the job was a breeze considering her long years spent in training in the cold corridors of the Manchester college and her flat in the western suburbs by the sea was so comfortable with its own little patch of garden that she had every intention of planting out with her favourite flowers just as soon as time allowed.

It was the thought of that flower garden that brought her thoughts right down to earth with a crash!

‘Flowers!” she exclaimed out loud.. “I haven’t brought any flowers!”

The suddenness of the arrangement for attending the funeral, the buying of clothes and instructions of how to get to Kanmantoo from the kindly young man next door threw Joyce’s thoughts for flowers right out the window. Now here she was, out in the countryside, barely a few miles from her destination and only now has she thought of flowers..What could she do?

Fate, at this desperate time had smiled upon Joyce, she decided, for there, not one yard from the verge of the road, was a veritable paddock full to the wire fence of the most brilliant, beautiful purple flowers, resplendent in their fulsome healthy bloom..

“They must be a native species” Joyce concluded as she pulled to the side of the road, for she had never seen such resplendent flowers before. She gathered a bouquet of these blossoms before she threw caution to the winds and gathered a large number more..

“Why not?” she reasoned “be generous”…and she rummaged for a slip of ribbon in the glove-box and tied the volume of flowers into the most bright, fulsome bouquet. “This’ll make a splash!” she pouted in satisfaction…and though she could not add a card of identification of the gift of the flowers, she consoled herself that it would take little effort to enlighten anyone who asked.

Upon arrival at the Church of England chapel, Joyce was obliged to find a park away from the gathering at the front and park the car around the side of the little church. It was apparent from the glimpse she saw of the minister at the door, there was intent to soon start the entrance to the ceremony. Hurrying out of the car with her huge bouquet, Joyce saw the side door to the church ajar and peeking in, saw the coffin on the bier with many bouquets of flowers on top…she quickly slipped into the empty church and placed her bright purple fronds amongst the dahlias and gladiolas and other blooms there, snuggling her generous purple bunch right on top in the middle..Satisfying herself the bunch was secure, she hurriedly slipped out and made her way around to the front of the church to try and meet some of the other mourners there.

As Joyce made her way around to the front of the church, she couldn’t help but notice here and there along the fence-line of the church yard, those very same flowers that she had gathered into her bouquet and placed on top of the coffin and she was wondering if she had been a tad overzealous in her gathering so many into a bunch..

“Coals to Newcastle.” She pondered…

Joyce moved close to a couple and smiled..they smiled back..and she just coyly introduced herself as ‘Joyce’ ..a distant relative…a niece..The couple smiled back. Then Joyce tried to break the ice a bit with some light conversation about the purple flowers along the fence-line.

“Those purple flowers are quite pretty now, aren’t they?”

“The Salvation Jane?”…the lady replied.

“Oh..is that their name? ..I..I didn’t know…from the city, you see…” and she smiled her secretarial smile..” A lovely name…most suitable to the occasion, one might say.”

“Hrumph!” the lady snorted ‘Good job old Stan is no longer around to hear you say that!..’Patterson’s curse’ he called ‘em..a blight on the district!”

“Oh..they troubled him?..Was it hayfever?” Joyce inquired.

“Hayfever!?”..the lady pulled her shoulders back ”Hardly…You mustn’t know what old Stanley Knowles did for a living all these last twenty five years..he were the council weeds and pests control officer..it were his life’s ambition to rid the district of them purple curse!”

“But they are everywhere..” Joyce quietly exclaimed..”He hardly was a success story then.”

“You can blame that on those lot over there” the lady motioned to a group apart.

“And they are?” Joyce now wide-eyed asked.

“The local Bee-Keepers and Honey Distillers Cooperative…Every time Stan pushed for greater effort and funding to really get stuck into the Patterson’s Curse problem, they’d come out swingin’..’cause they depended on the flowers in any off season and drought..But they weren’t deep enemies for all that and now they come to pay their respect..as neighbours do.”

An awful realisation of doom was starting to descend upon Joyce and she was almost at the point of making a dash around to the side door of the church to remove her bouquet from the coffin when the minister made a call for the friends of Stanley Knowles to come gather inside the church for the service.

It only took a little while as the congregation settled into the rows of pews in the chapel that someone noticed Joyce’s bunch of Salvation Jane (Patterson’s Curse) sitting proud as punch on the very top of the collection of funeral wreaths and bouquets on the coffin of the local council’s recently deceased weeds and pest control officer. Things moved pretty fast from that moment on.

A cry of exclamation heralded up to the rafters and it took only a little guess before the obvious conclusion for this gross insult upon a dead man’s reputation was laid upon the shoulders of the ‘Bee-Keepers and Honey Distillers Cooperative’ and the rest, as is so often recorded in moments of public disorder where accusation and abuse colours what should be a sombre celebration…is history.

Joyce did not wait to see the outcome of the fracas, but at the first cry of outrage, she deftly slipped out of the chapel doors and hastily making her way to the trusty Morris Minor 1000, she was already in third gear as she shot out of the gate onto the main road back to the city. The introduction to the country cousins would have to wait till another day.

J.C.

*

The Mower.

Wait until the poppies bloom,

She said.

She loved to see them flowering,

Red and green, upon the bank.

Though the grass was high,

And needed mowing –

Who would have thought,

It would be her last request.

They were only a little wildling thing,

That flowered and died

Within the day.

But oh,

How tender green their leaves,

She said.

How frail the petals,

Dark the heart,

Opening to the sun;

(And thoughts of sacrifice

Are never far away).

The years have been too many,

Since her smile lit my way.

Yet still,

I’ve never had the heart

To mow there since,

Until the poppies bloom,

And have their day.

And somehow it’s not spring until

I see the scarlet petals on the grass.

H.T.

The Story of Hannibal / Hannibal’s Tale.

This children’s story has it’s origin in two events. The first was in my wanderings as a much younger man trying my hand at opal mining…not so much mining, really as ; scratching around. In amongst those months of loneliness up in the desert, I had as a “pet” companion, a mouse that I caught one day eating at a packet of biscuits…I named him “Hannibal” and I kept him/ her in my top pocket fed on bits and pieces of crumbs .

The other part is filled by an old miner who lived in a “dugout” hole in the side of a hill a couple of miles away, like the pic below.

He was quite old then and his “dugout” in the hill contained only a big iron-frame bed and one small picture hanging precariously on the cave wall..It was a painting of a sailing clipper-ship that he assured me was the very ship he sailed in to Australia so many years ago. The “dugout” he lived in had a big hole in the roof that with the bright moonlight shining in, would give the super-white alunite walls a kind of blueish-phosphorous glow…quite a sight with he there on the edge of the bed talking of ships and seas while we were both in the middle of a vast desert!

Spinifex hopping mouse.

Rodent.

The spinifex hopping mouse, also known as the tarkawara or tarrkawarra, occurs throughout the central and western Australian arid zones, occupying both spinifex-covered sand flats and stabilised sand dunes, and loamy mulga and melaleuca flats.

Scientific name: Notomys alexis

The Story of Hannibal / Hannibal’s Tale.

When old Charlie took me in as a live-in companion, I was living out in the sticks…most of my life had been a close encounter with the seedy side of life..a pretty hairy existence. So I was quite happy to be nothing more than a “conversation piece” to a lonely old man while I got my room and board , along with regular meals free of charge.

It took me a little while to get used to his house and habits…some of those older folk have habits of doing things that have taken them dozens of years to perfect. But I didn’t mind, he was always quiet in the mornings as he come to the breakfast table…just saying ;“ Hello Hannibal”..that’s the nickname he gave me..He reckoned that anyone as tough and resilient as myself deserved a heroic name! He didn’t really expect too much conversation, and sometimes he would even ask me something and then answer for me as well.

Sometimes he’d take a piece of rock out of his pocket and ask;

“What do you think of that colour, Hannibal?” and he’d answer himself before I even had time to think..” ..well I think it’s nice…a bit on the pale side, but it will scrub up well”.

I think it was just the fact of having some company there that cheered him up, and sometimes we would do things together ..”I want you to stick close to me today , Hannibal..I want you as close as my shirt pocket.”

On some days, he’d take me with him to work..

“Today, Hannibal, we are going to drive a little way along the east ridge..I think we might find some colour there”…and if it wasn’t too much of a tight squeeze on the drive, he’d take me with him for a bit of company, keeping up a running commentary of what he was thinking while he worked. It was often quite entertaining and I didn’t have to contribute to the work or the conversation at all as he told story after story…he didn’t even expect me to laugh..  though they could be sort of funny at times, I think he would have been shocked if I did laugh!

At night, he would cook up a nice little dinner and I would get my meal from the best bits…with all the trimmings of a yeast bun dessert, or a biscuit .

At bed-time he would see me to my room with his “Tilley lantern” , and make sure I was safe and comfortable for the night before going to his own bedroom…all in all, it was a very nice billet for the several months I was with him.

Eventually though, he had to let me go..I am afraid some of my nocturnal adventures had got the better of me and I came home with my three tiny babies…and he had to rename me ; “Hannibelle”. Old Charlie said he was too old now for the pitter-patter of little feet, and I had to find a place of my own.

He read out a letter his sister wrote to him to say she too had; “… found another nice “home” that HE could go into when he was ready..after all, he wasn’t getting any younger..” and he sighed and shook his head .

“Hannibelle” he said ; ” I’d rather live in a hole of my own choosing..if they don’t mind “.

Old Charlie has since left the district to go to another mining town , because that was his life ; he was an opal miner you see?..and he had to let me go my own way..after all, he couldn’t be expected to take a Spinifex hopping mouse and all her offspring with him in the inside pocket of his old jacket, could he?

J.C.

If I Looked Back.

Life was good,

When I was young,

My sky was always blue,

The world seemed sane and right.

The rain upon the iron roof,

Was a comfort in the night.

The times of drought,

And times of plenty,

Had their day.

All had enough (but not too much),

And wars and famine,

Strife and want,

Seemed very far away.

Flirty glances,

Boozy parties,

Music full of life and hunger.

When men ( bless them ), were blokes,

And girls were sweethearts, lovers,

Wives and mothers.

So much to learn,

So much to know,

Realms of history,

Knowledge, mystery.

So many paths to follow.

The future

A road untravelled.

A baby’s smile,

And lullabies,

The growing years

That passed so swiftly.

Bricks and mortar to build a dream,

Amongst the rock and sand.

Precious lives,

And precious times.

Time echoed,

In the old, worn brown hills,

Fading into night,

On the face of the ancient cliffs

Dyed gold in the storm’s strange light.

And the river,

Yes, the river,

Changeless, changing,

Ever flowing.

Oh, when I was young,

The world was fine –

Then I turned thirty nine,

And that’s another story.

H.T.

*

A Sixpenny Secret.

A Sixpenny Secret.

It was a simple little ditty,

Mum would chant to me,

When I would fall from my trike,

Or would come to her with a scraped knee..

Well..I WAS a little tacker then, seeking sympathy,

And Mum would comfort me with these words,

In a humming melody..;

“A penny for your thoughts,my dear,

Threepence for a song,

Sixpence for a secret,

A shilling if you keep it long!”

And she would wipe the tears with this balm,

And press a coin into my palm..

But it was never a shilling,

And that was in the telling..

For I would invariable whine,

“This is not a shilling, it’s just sixpence”,

“And” she would ask; ”how many sixpences in a shilling?”

“Two!” I would answer keen and willing,

“Correct..” Mum would tap my nose and say,

“Then, Mr. Smarty-pants, I’ll owe you another some day”.

*

It is so many years ago that Mum has passed away,

Gone, her comforting words..now my life too, is closing, aye..

I went to where my mother rests, to clean and dust the grave,

For so many leaves and twigs, had there in time accrued,

And a couple of buckets of white gravel also needed to be spread.

It was while immersed in this work, that little ditty I recalled,

Took a while to get it straight, as to me she had then told,

And I repeated it quietly as I attended to her grave..

“A penny for your thoughts, Mum,

Threepence for a song,

Sixpence for a secret,

A Shilling if you keep it long!”…..

And at the end of the job, I placed a five cent piece,

Under the new-spread gravel where she rests in peace..

“It’s only five cents, mum,

And since there’s two in every shilling,

And because I am still that Mr. Smarty-pants,

You’ll understand when I say,

It looks like I’ll have to owe you one, on some other day..”

J.C.

Gleig the Small.

                                                   Stars up in the heavens,

                                                   Shining from afar,

                                                   Who knows where your

                                                   Star shine falls

                                                  On what strange and lonely shore.

                                      GLEIG THE SMALL

                                      (A small tale).

Gleig the small

Is a wee small man,

With tiny fingers

And tiny hands.

His home lies under the mallee bough

With wild clematis embowered

Where the pink boronia flowers.

Gleig the small

Has big, big feet

Clumping through the noon day shadows

Gathering up the lost feathers

Of many a bird –

Scrub wren, pigeon, quail and crow

To stitch and weave

Into a feathered cloak

That will keep him warm at night

When he sleeps

On his bed of grass

Under the mallee bough.

I come from a star,

Says Gleig the small.

From a once was world

Of golden mountains and golden towns,

Where silvery swans sailed serene

Upon silver lakes

Under silver moons.

Gleig the small wears

A hat of mallee leaves

As he follows the secret paths

Of old Lizard Sleepy Slow.

‘Your tail is thin,

This spring,’

Says Gleig the small.

Old Lizard Sleepy Slow

Looks at him with his old, dark eye

He likes yellow flowers,

And pieces of cheese,

An earwig or two,

And to sleep, all winter long,

Safe under some hollow log.

All that he needs, he has,

All that he can do, he does.

When sunlight warms

The ancient, turning earth.

And the bloom is on the wattle.

Comes the spring,

Comes the day,

When every bush and clump of grass,

And every twiggy shrub

Amongst the shattered rock

And crumbling stumps

Puts forth its veil of flowers

And the dark, untrodden woodland –

Oh, what charms of gentle splendour

Blossoms there.

Upon a rock

Amongst a tide of petals

The blue of fabled seas,

Stands proud a tiny lizard

Clad in his scaly skin.

‘You’re just like me,’

Says Gleig the small.

‘You’ve tiny paws,

And tiny claws,

You’re the smallest dragon

That ever was.’

The moon is a golden shining bowl,

An owl glides silently among the trees.

A star, shines, trembling, through the leaves.

Gleig the small dreams,

Of his once was world

Of quiet meadows,

Gentle fountains fall

And infant dragons,

(Destined for other worlds, they say),

Play.

The smallest tear drops to the ground.

But

Dreams are dreams,

And lost is lost,

Says Gleig the small.

And sleeps

Hushed in the warm

Of his feathjered cloak,

On his bed of grass,

In his little wooden house,

Under the sturdy mallee bough

Where the pink boronia flowers.                                      H.T.