The Scriveners Review

For the Mid-Murray region.  Vol. 1…#4.

 

Fishing on the banks of the Murray River..Blanchetown..1936.

                        Under the Mallee Bough,

                           Across the quiet waters,

                      Blended with the cries of river birds,

                           We hear our ancestral voices.

             A selection of poems and stories by local writers.

         Our motto: “Art not just for art, but for culture’s sake”

          Selected and edited by Helen Tuxford and Joe Carli.                                                 

Stay a while. 

 

                                              

Why look!

The aspidistra is flowered,

And the cool of the morning has faded,

It’s the change-over of the day,

Won’t you stay a while?

I’m sure the shopping can wait,

Put your basket on the buffet,

And I’ll drop the kettle on to boil,

For it is time for a cup of tea.

The wattles are in their glory this year,

And I’ve never seen such colour

As does cover the bottlebrush by the kitchen window,

Do you think it’ll rain?        

And do you expect to see Peter again?                                                                           

Won’t you stay awhile?                    ( Clarice Proudthorpe)

 

Old settler outside his rough shack, reading in the evening gloaming.

THE 3^rd ALTERNATIVE.

There is a place, not far from here, called Clach Thoul, where the unwanted go. A grim and unholy place, to those of us who value goodness and the purity of our faith, but it is to Clach Thoul that the beggars, the old, the unwanted and the wasted go, for there is no  other situation, in these dark and troubled times, where they are suffered to live.

I can not like Olach Thoul, though I try to think with charity of those forced to make their home in that valley. There is something so ugly in the ways between the hovels and the rough bough huts; in the very air, as if ugliness and cruelty were something that such men breathe out, even as they take in the good, quiet air, and leave the places unclean where they have walked.

Nevertheless, because we are a house of mercy, every evening we drive our largest and sturdiest wagon along the narrow hill road that winds down between the groves of pines and olive trees, to the valley where Clach Thoul lies. Each night, we search through the narrow roadways for the sick and the dying, so that we may give them what little aid we can, until our wagon base is full and we can take no more, then we turn homeward s once again.

I have written down this story at the prompting of our master, Dubricius, who, finding me idle at that hour during the day when we take a small resting from our labours, suggested that I might like to find pen and parchment, and record a few of my thoughts and ideas. Perhaps he thinks time hangs heavily for me at such moments, but in truth, I was only dreaming, as the young may do. Or perhaps he knows, for he is wise, in which direction and to which end my dreamings go, and reads me better than I think.

 But having decided to follow Dubricius’s advice, I could not, for many days, think of what to write, for our life here, though full and good enough, would I think seem simple and dull to worldlier minds than mine. Then I remembered the man who came to us in the summer of the year before this one, and I have written down his story, for it seemed to me one worth telling, and of more interest than a chronicle of my own narrow life.

It was, as I have noted, the time of summer heat, and the day had been a hot one, so that the smell from Clach Thoul reached us in the wagon as soon as we came to the level stretch of road where it leads for a while along beside a small stream. We are fortunate in the Placing of our house, for in the hills we have almost always a small breeze to bring relief to even the hottest of days. But the valley was still and cloying in the evening’s warmth; the mean shelters and hovels of Clach Thoul offer scant protection from the sun, for there are no longer trees in that place.

Now and then, efforts are made to persuade the inhabitants of the valley to grow vegetables and fruit for their own consumption, for the soil along the stream is good, and a little effort would reward them tenfold.

But the people of Clach Thoul have no will or wish to work -they prefer to snarl and fight over the provisions which are brought regularly to them – and woe to the weak and poorly then, for only the strong manage to secure food for themselves.

In the general way, the inhabitants of Clach Thoul ignore our presence in their lanes each night, as we guide the horse through their narrow ways. Occasionally, they will even place the ill in the roadways for us to find, for they know the sick will receive care in our hospice, and the dying a grave. But occasionally too, when they are angry, or when someone has managed to steal wine or spirits and there has been drinking, they shout and abuse us; even throw stones and offal, or worse, at the wagon and the poor horse. Aviv, who drives the wagon, ignores them all, until they begin to throw rocks, and then he looks at them from under his great red-brown shaggy brows.

Then the stone throwing, at least, usually stops, for Aviv is a very big man, and in spite of his vows and his calling, looks as if he would know how to fight well. Then too, (though  Dubricius does not know of it), he always carries a stout cudgel in the wagon, and perhaps the threat of it is enough.

But on the evening of which I am writing, there were no shouts or crowds or throwing of stones. The people were tired and sapped of energy by the sun, and watched us indifferently from the gloom of their dirty shelters, as we made our way slowly through the first narrow way – it would be incorrect to call them streets, for they are nothing more than bare stretches of earth between the hahazard rows of hovels – and then into the second one. there are only three, though they are each one very long, and generally we manage to reach the end of the third one before the wagon is full, and we need to turn the horse to home. I am always thankful when we manage to do this, as I do not like to think of the ill ones lying in the heat or the freezing cold for another night and day, for all they are only the unwanted.

But that night we drove through the firsts lane, and were already half way down the second, before we came across the first person in need. Aviv stopped the horse, handed me the reins without a word, and stepped down from the wagon. He did not hurry, but he did not linger either, for that would not be wise; he only picked up the thing in the roadway – indeed, it seemed little more than a heap of dirty rags than anything else – came back, and placed the body carefully in the bed of the wagon. It was a woman, old and very thin, and she was already dead.

There were two more dead in that road, one man and another woman. ‘Heat,’ said Aviv, who is a man of few words, and I nodded, for Aviv does not care much for conversation. And the bodies, having lain in the sun all that day, smelt, and though I am ashamed to say it, I was feeling a little ill.

Dubricius has told us, and I am aware, that we should not hesitate to perform this last service to our brother man. But the unwanted rarely bother to keep themselves clean, and are often ridden with sores or vermin, so that I do, in truth, shrink from touching them, and often wonder at Aviv’s lack of distaste in holding them so closely.

Aviv turned the horse into the third and last lane, where we found a man who had managed to crawl into the meagre shade of a broken down cart, and was still alive, and then another dead man. While Aviv was placing the dead one in the wagon, I noticed another man, almost hidden, in a place where an overhang of roofing gave some shelter from the cruel sun during the day, though it must have been unbearably hot. But to ease his situation, he had scraped a hollow in the hard dirt. I told Aviv, but he glanced dubiously at the wagon bed. ‘Wagon’s full,’ he said, for the rough boards were already covered. He added, ‘Most like he’s dead already,’ which was quite a long speech for him, so that I knew that he was not quite easy about his decision.

‘No, he is alive. I saw him move a little.’ Usually I do not argue with Aviv, but for some reason it struck me, what the man had tried to do; laying on the eastern side of the hut, so that he would have to bear the morning sun, but not the afternoon’s, which is by far the hotter, and the scooping of a small place in the ground, as a dog does on a hot day, so that the earth . might cool him a little. It seemed to me that there was logic behind his actions, and one sees very little evidence of logic in Clach Thoul.

Aviv shrugged. Perhaps, as I did, he felt pity for the man; perhaps he thought of the following day, when he would have to lift the dead body, if there was no longer life there on the morrow. Whichever feeling it was that motivated him, he looped the reins around the brake, said, ‘Slide that lot over a bit, then,’ and went to get the man from his place of shelter, while I shifted the bodies — none were very heavy — to make room for the newcomer.

I heard Aviv’s footsteps, as I moved the live man as gently as I could towards the side of the wagon. But under my hand he gasped, his limbs began to jerk and spasm, and while I froze into stillness, he gave a great gasp, and died. a few moments more he twitched very slightly, then lay still.

‘Another dead,’ said Avic, pragmatically, as he lifted the man he carried into the wagon bed. He said, quite cheerfully, ‘This’ll have quiet company for the journey.’ Aviv has grim humour.

But I was silent as we reached the end of the lane and Aviv turned the horse to the road back along the stream. I felt somehow as if the man I had touched had died because of what I had done, though I knew that quite possibly he would have died anyway. I cannot view death with Aviv’s pragmatic nonchalance, and I felt only guilt as we began to climb up into the familiar quiet of our peaceful hills again, and I could turn my thoughts thankfully to home once more. I accept these small journeyings to Clach Thoul as part of my duties, and my vows of serving, but I can not always help but be thankful when each is over.

The last man that Aviv had placed in the wagon was conscious. I turned to look at him, and, was surprised to see that his eyes were open, though they did not seem to be fixed on anything in particular. I spoke to him, to reassure him, but there was no response, and thinking that perhaps he was not after all sensible of his surroundings,’ I turned back in my seat, as we began to climb upwards again through the pines and the dusty olive trees.       (HelenTuxford)                                                                                                                                                                                            

A Visit from an Old Couple  

 

                     

A visit from an old couple.

Crikey!..the old couple that came to the nursery workshop…I almost forgot…ah!.I was buggered after a lousy sleep the night before, what with all the lightning and thunder…I went straight to sleep after dinner last night.. I’ll tell you now.

It went like this…

This old couple..Now we get a few curious people come to these free “how to pot and grow” workshops at the nursery, some tree-change people who want to grow their own..some for company and a day out…we got one couple who grew lilliums for show…they moved out here to stop other ‘breeders” from stealing their bulbs and such..very jealously competitive is the flower showing fraternity….we had a couple of minature horse breeders once…the horses were miniature, NOT the breeders.. but I won’t go there!

This old couple turned up, John and Helen…never seen them before..said they were up visiting some rellies and thought they’d come see ( we advertise in our newsletter). A nice couple, smartly if a tad conservatively dressed, sharp-pressed slacks and trousers, cardi and collar shirt …snug-fitted slip-on sandles..a lot of pastel shades..you know ; the “eastern suburbs grandparents look”.

As a matter of fact, it was that which drew my attention to them…they had that exact look that you’d expect the perfect grandparents to have…Her; that soft-featured countenance with the “look of the listener”, hair; short, curled and permed ( I suppose that’s what you’d call it). Him; soft, groomed moustache, kindly, inquisitive eyes with a keen ear..his hair, silvered, short, parted to one side, held in place with some sort of hair crème. They looked a picture of genteel grandparentlyness.                                                                                                 

At the end of the workshop, when they were purchasing some pots , soil and a few plants (our prices are very cheap…cost only), I approached them with my observation…the lady laughed out loud and the man smiled..

“Touche’” he said..”Or rather; “Une touché de elegance” !”  and they both smiled.

I raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“I am afraid you see us in our theatrical get-up..it becomes very difficult to shake off at times” The lady explained.

‘This sounds interesting” I remarked  “Can I coax you in for a cup of tea and biscuits while you tell me about it?” I offered .

They accepted keenly and we sat at the kitchen table with cuppa and a saucer of iced vo-vo’s while they revealed all.

The lady spoke.

“We hire our persons out to people or organizations that want couples such as ourselves to add a certain “touch of elegance” to an occasion..or as John said ;”Une touché de elegance”..as a matter of fact, that slogan is on our invoice.”

“Let me get this straight” I pleaded “…people and companies hire you to come to their events just to give it a sort of respectable elder citizen cred’? “

“Exactly.” He answered

“What sort of companies?”..I was curious.

“Oh financial investment houses, aged care providers, companies selling certain products for the elderly..we go there and ..well..mingle..that sort of thing.”

“Mingle?”

“Yes…look respectable…like you’d expect a grandparent to act…sweet, polite, gently condescending…that sort of thing…full of good, sound advice…provided by the organizers of course.”

“And private people?” I asked.

“Now THEY are the difficult ones!” he sipped his tea and placed the cup and saucer back on the table. “ We have some who want to claim us as their real grandparents so as to have a kind of “geneaology  line” to impress another party..They supply a few pictures and we refer to them in conversation, sometimes we photo-shop ourselves into another photo..say “at the beach” or somewhere…for that extra touch of reality..”

“Isn’t that a bit risky?”…                                                                                                      

“You mean in case someone recognizes us in another place sort of scenario?…well, my dear chap, that’s where the theatrics come into play…”

“We are both “retired” actors.”  Helen took up the telling “ Small repertory theatre, that sort of thing..Noel Coward farces and comedies..Unfortunately those small companies and theatres mostly closed down with the internet and “on-demand streaming”….and of course, the time of slapstick or double entendre vaudeville is now “persona non grata”..and we got bored with a dull life at home..no kids, and God forbid; grey-nomading!…so we thought of this..”

“I tell you,” John leaned over the table to me…”we could come in next workshop as different people and I guarantee you wouldn’t recognize us!”

I believed him.

“But we did have some beauties before we got saavy on how to handle “situations”..John , you remember that foreign woman…the fiancé of the orphan gentleman…”

“Dammed embarrassing!..almost made a fool of myself!..But I plead innocence in the matter..I was ambushed! ” John protested.

“Shall I tell him, John?” Helen touched his hand gently.

“Oh go right ahead..so long ago now it’s almost funny”.

“Well” began Helen “ We had this commission from a wealthy Australian business chap, rather dodgy if you ask me…that was going to marry a foreign woman…from somewhere in Europe..in that country, but he was an orphan and her family expected him to have certain “credentials” so to speak.. respectability I suppose you’d say…Anyway , we were hired to play the Grandparents…his closest relatives since his parents were killed in a motor accident…He was on holiday in Australia with the lady and they were to “drop in” on “Gran and Papa” for afternoon tea..in the English manner, and we were to impress the lady with our quaint charm and so on…”

“And did they? “

“Did they bloody ‘ell! “ Helen blurted.” Like a cloudburst!..I’d no sooner answered the door when SHE was in the hallway like a stray dog after a square meal!”

John took up the story.

“The woman was unstoppable!..All bouffant, and bosoms!”: John phewed  “ I was sitting in the club chair and she came straight over to me…I was about to get up when she grabbed me and planted big, fat, juicy kisses on both my cheeks…my nose wedged into those voluminous bosoms like Edmond Hillary descending into a crevasse on Mt Everest!..and I tell you what, the perfume she had soaked down there nearly knocked me out cold!..I’d just come up for air when she exclaimed..: “ You are Brendan’s Granpapa but now you are my new Deda!…”

“Ha!” Helen exclaimed “ dammed hussey!”

“..and no sooner than I fell back down, IT came up!”                                                          

“IT ?” I pondered….

He pointed meaningfully toward his crotch…”Spontanious nervous reaction..” he pleaded.

“Lazerus rising!” Helen mocked.

“Whoa!” I exclaimed.

‘You’re not kidding ; whoa..I quickly jumped up, spun around to conceal and readjust the “inconvenience”. and then doubled over pleading “my old war-wound”.. “

“Anyway, we got it all sorted out and they departed happy if apologetically after a suitable time…I believe he informed her some months after the wedding that we had both died of a heart attack..one “followed” the other into God’s care..a nice romantic touch, don’t you think?”

They both smiled…

“I say” John leant over to me..” I don’t suppose you’d mind me taking a couple of those nice vo-vo’s with me …for a snack on the way home…the old blood-sugar, y’know..Ta!…” and they stood to depart.

I gave them the invoice for the plants and potting stuff they took.
“You’ll accept payment in seven days, I take it?” John asked, eyebrows raised, wide eyed.

I hesitated…then smiled “knowingly” in return.

“Of course, of course…and thank you very much”.

Lovely couple, but I don’t think I’ll see them at too many more workshops.

                                                                                         ( Ambrose Quint )

Little girl with her toy dog..1936 Pictorial Annual.

JOE

Joe is asleep in his basket,

Outside, the winter wind blows,

I at my work

You, dreaming dog dreams                                                                                               

Of long, long ago.

But when I rise from my desk,

You waken and yawn,                                                                                                     

While I put on my coat,

You wait by the door.

For we’re not afraid

Of the wind and the cold,

We laugh, and we snuffle the air.

There are stern heights to climb

And rabbits to chase,

All the wild and the cold and the free

In the roaming

Are waiting

For you and for me.

*

Joe, the green grass is growing,

And the winter winds blowing again,

The cliffs are as steep

And the rabbits as fast,

The bird calls still

A tune in the air.

The moss on the rock in the shade

Is the same,

As it was

When we strayed there that day.                                                                                    

But the cold on my cheek,

And the eagle that soars,

And the wild sky, ragged and torn,                                                                               

And the memory that pains,

Are only for me.

For I walk alone,

Where we walked together,

Long, long ago.

( H.R. Tuxford. )

Hundreds of bags of wheat at the railhead..1936.

Mattheus’ Speech.

The end of harvest in the days of horse agriculture marked a moment for both rejoicing and contemplation…here, the head of the family who farmed the crops, at the end of the celebratory dinner gave the usual “end of harvest thanks” with a speech thanking their forebears and talking of the family’s future for the following years. In his speech, Matheus the farmer gives thanks and gives notice of the end of an era.

Mattheus rapped the wooden serving-spoon from the plate of vegetables onto his plate…

Mattheus’s speech..:

“My usual position when at this point of the evening, at this “end of harvest night”, is to be standing here at the head of the table, cup of good cheer in hand, giving a thank-you speech and congratulating us all on a job well done…but tonight, I will remain seated..not out of a sense of indolence nor disrespect…for I doubt there is a person in this room does not know of my nature by now..But tonight I remain seated so as to talk to you on the same level…no longer as “Th’ Boss”…nor now as head of the work-team, for tonight I hand the reins…if only figuratively..over to my sons ; Peter and Christian..for it is they who will now take the family farm onto the next chapter of its evolution with the full blessing of myself and Magdalena..and it is that evolution that will change the entire work practices..as we have talked of these last several years..from the old one of horse and harness to the new of tractor and steel couplings…Myself, having reached both God’s and Nature’s allotted time of years allowed a man..; “Three-score and Ten”..I am like the proverbial old dog and new tricks…I cannot change and I have no right to stand in stand in its way.

But tonight, I want to talk about another thing and I hope give both my sons, their wives and children..our grandchildren..both warning of consequence and also to top up the cup of cheer with the measure of hope.…

Nature has lent its hand to us…she has given us soil…water…and sustenance…From time immemorial we have harnessed her beasts for the field..with the strength of these fellow toilers, these mute companions of our labours, we have turned the soil, harrowed the Earth and seeded our crops…from the time when my father and mother first set foot on this strange country and drew our section of land and marked the dimensions of their home on the soil, to now when their children sup at the table of their dreams and promise, it has all been done with eyes firm set on that measure of a man’s worth..the measure of a woman’s worth..on the measure of home and family..on a measure of hope..My parents, our forebears built an empire out here upon a new country..not an empire of imperial conquest, nor an empire of expansive proportions, but rather an empire of hope and dreams for their family..their backs bent to the chores of that ambition, without doubt, without fail and with high faith in their mission to succeed…indeed, succeed they must or perish in the trying.

The greatest treasures of a parent is their children..it is the children who will carry the future to further horizons that can be dreamed of by a parent and it is the safety of those children that exercises the most concern for the parent..What measure of gold is the equal to the harvest of seed that gives new life in every season to a garden? What reward of contentment can equal that of a full stomach, a clear mind and the love in one’s heart for what greets them on the start of a full day of productive and rewarding toil?…Why would a man get out of bed if not to fulfill the promise and reap the bounty of a life of hope…that measure of hope that is the right of every person born under Nature’s sky and God’s heaven?

When I gazed tonight upon the healthy meal that my loving wife, Magdalena, set before me, I saw the fair measure of meat…of potatoes..of pumpkin grown so prolifically over the old composting stable heaps..it’s tendrils seeking distant promise like an arm reaching for distant fruits..a wonderful meal..and all in good measure..and it is that measure that I now say to each and every one of my children and their families to heed and be watchful that envy and greed do not cast a shadow over future ambitions.

A long life..a hard life taught our parents the creed of what is fair measure for one to aspire to..what is just reward for one’s labour..and there is no sense of satisfaction in the shirking of one’s fair share of labour..for there is a measure in nature in this world where each person is allotted a share of labour and where one person shirks their share, it falls to the shoulders of another to carry that extra load..and THAT..in anyone’s sense of justice is a failure of duty toward our brothers and sisters.

I hear talk of the new mechanics of farming having the means of “making life easier”..and I have to admit that after a bad day with horses, harness and machinery, such a phrase would even make my eyebrows lift in inquisitiveness and bring a smile of delightful possibility to my lips…”To make life easier”…now isn’t that a hope and dream to aspire to?…to make life easier…but then I have to ask..; “easier from what?”..certainly, if one was held in slavery..or imprisoned unfairly..or driven to extreme by brutal Master and Lord, one would wish for life to be easier..for those conditions are  un-natural to both nature and humanity..and I would trust to all of us here in this room..let no man proclaim ownership over another’s life, lest he too be one day given like punishment.

But no..here and now, on these paddocks..on this farm..in this part of the world, what measure of life can be claimed to be better for the making of it easier? Will the vegetables grow faster, the sheep more wool?…Will the ache of work be less assuaged with a full stein of beer at day’s end?..and what of THIS day..this end of harvest celebration..will such a thing exist once the mechanics of it takes away the camaraderie of shared, shoulder to shoulder labour?…and what of the table of food like we see here in front of us..where waste from the stables goes to the heaps of compost and thence to the garden from whence comes the vegetables to our table…where will the waste from the tractor go? Will it give nourishment to the soil or will it make waste of the soil and thence make life less easier for those who must clean up such waste?..Will there be need for such a gathering of family to give thanks for the blood, sweat and tears of a year of toil when less folk are needed for the harvest?…Will the making of life easier also mean the lessening of the rewarded pleasures for the job’s end , for is there anyone among us who does not breathe a sigh of relief at hard work’s end..but then also be content and the soul fulfilled with satisfaction of a job well done?..Does not that also feel so good?..And I wonder on the lessening of the need for hired labour to attend the many chores for maintaining the draught horses…the harness repairer, the farrier, the smithy..and if they go, what of the town band..and the church choir..and then the bakery and grocer?…and our neighbours who cannot afford to tool-up to this new mechanics..are they to become a sacrifice to a new world order of an “easier life”..

No..I cannot stand in the way of progress, but I do give notice to you, my children, that you use caution with this new method of farming..not to let it take control of you..I know you will have to go to the bank to up-grade to the tractors and new machinery it uses..be warned about the banks..they have no friend but compound interest, no mercy save the court of bankruptcy and no soul save that traded with the devil.

No..I cannot stand in the way of progress, so I will leave the farm in the steady hands of our children and wish them well while myself and Magdalena seek retirement in Tanunda and I will perfect my arm at bowls and my ear at listening to the idle chatter of the town.

So let us raise our cups to give thanks for the measure of hope that has been promised and now fulfilled…”                                                                                 ( Joe Carli )

Masses of Golden Wattle enhance the natural beauty of the young woman.

 

 

 Home, Wife, Earth; Mother.

God!…it was cold this morning, when I put out the food for the animals,

It bit into my fingers, smarting, like a sharp pinch of a rat’s teeth!

As I walked back toward the house, I could see the soft plume of smoke,

Curling from the chimney..curling from the new stoked fire of this day,

Signal that there was a fire burning inside the stove..signal that all was ok..

And I quietly rejoiced to be going to our home..Home..Wife..Earth; Mother.

The welcome from the cold for a working man, home, family, warmth..lover.

There is not ..there cannot be..there will not be a thing more precious for one another..

It is not a childish thing.. it is the need for a grown man to know the love of her, for her..

It is not a lie..it is not a false thing, nor is it a foolish thing..it is a truism for a father..

Home, Wife, Earth; Mother.