Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal.

Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal #3.

Harriet Fairclough.

The realisation that the next stretch of river has a series of rapids that would demand my utmost attention to the steering of the craft and will take much of the day with such labour. I decided to first make a stop at the small hamlet of Rhine Villa, now renamed “Cambrai” to go to the store and refresh my supplies just in case of spillage or damage whilst traversing those rapids..for one cannot be certain of what forces will take hold of my being whilst under the power of the river…so best “be prepared” as is the scouts motto.

The hamlet of Cambrai consisted of a scatter of houses in an ordered grid survey, with the usual central points of post office, soldiers memorial hall, church and manse along with several well-constructed houses along a main street that led toward the river bridge just to the west of the newer railway bridge of the Sedan railway line.

It was while I was returning to my moored craft that I witnessed a wedding in progress at the church…a large number of people dressed in their best clothes were greeting the new married couple with thrown rice and well wishes. I made a point of walking near the wedding party to see the happy couple..The bride, as is correct procedure, stole the show, all decked out in a white satin gown with swirls of tulle around and over her shoulders and head, giving herself a halo like effect…the groom in the usual sombre black frock coat…a quick peek inside the church saw elaborate decking out with ribbons and bunting over the balcony where the organist was belting out a loud tune on an organ…the whole atmosphere seemed to be one of rapturous joy…they must be a well matched couple, I was thinking…As I turned aside from the church doors, I saw a hand written sign telling of the current event being the marriage of Edvard and Alma..the names followed by the usual almost unpronounceable German surnames..I noted that  another substantial building in the town, the hotel, a low verandah’d building fronting two streets at a corner of the town, was busy with men rolling several barrels of what I had to presume was beer along toward a decked out doorway of one end of the bar area..I suspect this area will bear witness to the many raised glass libations in celebration of the current event at the Church.

With a shared, joyful smile on my face, I slipped away and made my way to my moored craft at the edge of the river..I stowed away the new supply of provisions and prepared to set out to tackle the rapids that commenced from just before the new railway bridges that spanned the Marne River at Cambrai.

When I say; “rapids”, it is not like the tumbling foaming rush of a roaring river that one sees in photography magazines, but even so, I didn’t want to bottom-out the skiff on boulders in a shallow part of the river…so I spent a little time rowing back and forth across the wide reach to ascertain just where the deeper water was…I could pick this out by the smoother surface of the swirling current, the deeper colour of the water and it was to this spot that I directed the craft…and turning it so the bow faced back upstream, I once again could slow and direct the craft to the safer water of the stream…this took some careful management and deft oar work that by the end of the rapids where once again the waters smoothed out into a broad stream and I once again could turn the craft around so it faced in an orthodox way…by the time I had settled both the skiff and myself into a calm state and made good progress downstream, the afternoon was wearing on and I sought a place along the grassy banks to pull up and make camp for the night.

This done to satisfaction, and with the camp set for the night and a nice fire crackling under the billy of water in a circle of the white limestones of this region, I once again settled into a lounging position on my swag and after a satisfying meal of cured ham basted in the skillet with a couple of eggs sunnyside down..I have here to admit there are several types of essential foods that I do not like to dwell on their origin…the egg is one of them, milk another, followed by honey…don’t get me wrong..I like and participate in all three, but I find it a degree uncomfortable thinking about their method, shall we say, of delivery for our consumption..and then once again chewing on some rounds of Cesarino’s tasty salami and also enjoying a crusty slice of fresh bread from the Cambrai bakery…life once again settled into a reflective mood..the evening was calm with little zephyrs of breeze tufting up the upper fronds of a large red gum next to the camp..a cluster of magpies had settled onto its upper branches and every now and then one or another would chortle a tune for my amusement…or so I liked to imagine…they have a particular spiralling note in that it seems to be more of a choralling whistle than a throaty warble…though they do at times do those as well..a veritable virtuoso of the feathered kingdom, is the magpie..

The day was finishing well…all was good…life was plentiful.

It was while in this congenial frame of mind that my thoughts went back to the wedding I had witnessed that day in Cambrai…and it gave impetus to memories of my own brush with the possibility of a marriage many years ago when I was in my early forties…admittedly, an older age for a man to marry, but my attention to the chandlering company precluded..unlike my father..the seeking of social notoriety…perhaps it was my father’s forays into the bright, shiny world of wine, women and song that kept my head down and bum-up working at the business..whatever, it dawned upon me one day that I was spending too much time alone in the evenings, so I sought the company of like educated folk and joined a debating society…NOT, I might add as a contestant, but more of a listener and judge of good elocution.

The time being just at the latter stages of the war, the dearth of men available after the killing fields of France and the Dardanelles, allowed some women to filter into the ranks of debaters..this was a new age of choice for many women, as they had joined the ranks of working men to fulfill the need for staff and factory hands for the war effort…they joined the ranks of the working classes and stayed there, refusing to go back to the chores and drudgery of domestic life. Most of these women were highly educated young ladies from upper middle-class families and had many good points to raise in some of the more radical debates around politics or social and economic views.

I did get drawn to one particular woman there debating…Harriet Fairclough was her name, she dressed stylishly, but with cloth that gave her body strong, but full feminine form..she gave out a presence that she was not one to be messed with..and I can still recall the words she spoke in the opening address on the night I first set eyes upon her…

“Words fall from our lips like cherry-stones into waste-bins..words of no serious content nor of any consideration..Without wisdom, we are but drones, without emotional feelings we are but beasts of the fields.”

Oh dear, journal…I feel I am about to venture into cloudy waters that I have been avoiding for a number of years…more years that I want to think back on..but these pleasant days on the river with only myself and the swirling waters of the stream to contend with..and these quiet nights under the red gums and the stars with the only conversation being the calls of birds or the croak of frogs, has allowed me the time and space to dig into the past in a calm, ordered frame of mind..and it is good to get it out in the open, so to speak..So I will talk to you, dear journal, of my thoughts and memory of past times.

Let us begin…

When men and women form relationships at an older age, it is a decision not taken lightly…the forelived years of learned experience give a note of caution to entering into such personal contracts..”eyes wide open” is the motto, but as quoted from a wise, old sailor who often rested his threadbare elbow on the counter of our Port Adelaide store…He would fill his magnificent pipe with about half a pound of weed reminiscent..if I can imagine…of camel dung..strike up a match to light the insufferable thing and then philosophise on topics de jour…in this case , a life wasted in chasing skirt from one foreign port to another…a situation in which he liked to brag he got the full triple crown..; Three marriages, three divorces, thrice poxed and three children from each wife..The quote?; “It’s a waste of a man’s time trying to keep a level head when dealing with women..for when the dick rises, the brains go to the arse of the pants!..” …sage words indeed, even spoken with fo’c’sle vulgarity and as it turned out, I was no different, despite my false pride, from that great morass of male humanity.

It was after that first experience of hearing Harriet at the society that I tried to get a formal introduction to her..but to no avail, it seems she was a popular choice for many young men seeking her attention, and I am a bit of a loner in the society stakes, so I took note of her name and sought out my own channels of communication via a letter introducing myself to what was her business address at a photography studio she had in the same suburb that my father had purchased a house to entertain his bevy of women callers…Norwood. Unfortunately, the said house was bequeathed in the will to the lady who bore his twin sons.

I wrote to Harriet expressing my admiration for her elocution and phrasing in her debates and the subjects chosen. One of which was a forceful defence for women to be “free thinkers” equal in a world of male opinion.

Harriet, surprisingly replied to my missive with forthright opinion on the subject of the “independent mind”. So forceful in fact, that I found I wanted to challenge her to prove her commitment to the idea. So I sent her a short story I had worked on that while it was not confronting erotic, did have suggestions of sensuous behaviour from the characters within the story..the objective to see just how serious her “independence of mind” was.

 I do confess here and now to being an amateur scribbler who wrote stories of my own for my own amusement…now and then, with what I thought was a better piece, I would seek publication in one of the weekly rags of the capital, but always under a pseudonym. But this particular piece was a new variant of my usual story-line, those being of a local colour or historical content..a different tack from my usual stories..I had decided to delve into my own subconscious self and I realised that I had for many years been a closet voyeur with a taste for the erotic..and so I lowered the bucket into my own personal well of my soul and pulled it up to see what I would see..I wrote an erotic story about a man who had lost his wife through a long illness and the meeting of the lovely lady next door..they meet and match over the subject of a pear tree..and I was a little reticent as to how it would be received in an age of bowdlerism..so I challenged her “as an independent thinker” to read the story and give me a personal critique.

I have to admit that much of what I knew of erotica was gleaned from my younger years living in my Father’s house and witnessing the female company he kept…that and having a keen ear for eavesdropping, gave me ample example of the machinations of both genders in the art of courtship..and I might make an observation whereupon quite a few people in that company, seeking some sort of approbation from my father, would take me aside an try to curry favour with myself in anticipation I might mention the kindness of the person to my father…a situation that I..as any ambitious youth would do..took advantage of the situation for my own benefit..yes..it does seem opportunist..but I plead my mind was many time overcome with the heady perfume emanating from the ladies corsages…hrrumph!..perhaps the old adage of the sins of the father being visited upon the son is a truism.

To my delight, Harriet accepted my challenge..so I sent her the tale..albeit with a great deal of trembling reticence..hoping Harriet would read the story not interpretating it as vulgar explicitness, but rather for the sensuous sensitivity contained within ..indeed, Harriet enjoyed the tale and we started to have chats via a regular exchange of letters..and I have to say that after a short time..around a month or so of congenial messaging, it became..if I can create a new expression..”the start of a beautiful friendship”.

The correspondence had to be put on hold for some time as Harriet was in the process, even as we first met, of moving to Melbourne to set up a professional photography studio in the city..but this didn’t bother me, as I really had no intention of committing then to a relationship, but just wanted to correspond as one -shall we say- artist to another about a shared interest.

And by the living saints,, she turned out to be more than just a talker…for Harriet truly was an independent thinker…and if I might add…doer!…for one of  Harriet’s photographic amusements was coincidentally, like my new realisation of myself..a thrill with eroticism.

Have you ever been aroused via the photographic media..and I don’t mean brutal pornography, someone with bad taste can access THAT dross..I mean having a lady send you sensual pictures of her own erotic creations..of her own body..with deliberate intent to arouse you..and only you?..It was after one of our discussions on the power of erotica as a body/mind health stimulant that I received Harriet’s first…”gift” as I came to call them..to myself, such beauty given with sensual intent to me..to only me..was a gift supreme..a gift I had no appropriate words of gratitude for…I could only swoon at the erotic pleasure..for I had come to accept by now that the most arousing pleasure of the body is best contained within the mind…reality in these cases can and usually is a clumsy, unsatisfactory process that rarely ends well..sexual pleasure, if I can be so bold as to opine..is a most powerful animus best corralled within a strong spiritual embrace. But I shall restrain from the vanity of making any further profound conclusions about such a touchy subject and reflect upon the veritable mountain of tomes written down through the ages in futile conclusion of the item in question.

 This give and take of erotic stimulus continued with several more beautiful photographs of Hillary in provocative poses…her lingerie clad breasts or bottom gracing my sight and mind in sensual delight.. In reciprocation of  Hillary’s “gifts” of erotica, I would compose poetry solely directed of, to and for herself…I would compose my gift of elocution celebrating her beauty ; inner and body for both of us to soak our souls in..and even if I say so myself, those eulogies to Hillary were of a quality equalling the best of any lover’s poetry..for they were composed with honest and humble dedication of my affection toward herself.

Hillary had several men friends she would see and socialise with..and I was in no way possessive of her trysts and sexual fantasies..on the contrary, I would encourage the enjoyment of such..am I not a voyeur?.. and then ask..in the most polite way of her evenings..I would ask what she wore and Hillary would in kind post a photograph of her in an evening gown..and if she was in a sexy mood, would expose one of her breasts out of the garment for my voyeur’d delight..and yes..I would almost weep with joy for the secreted excitement of our corresponding liaison..and knowing Hillary’s domination side, I would sometimes make humble appeals to her controlling nature just to have her “chastise” me in playful language..

Oh, it was a delightful game we played in the privacy of our own psyche.

I had a long-term vision for a “long-distance, correspondence relationship” that we could hold in secure confidence of each other giving and receiving an exchange of gifts of “equal value” in precious feelings to each other.

And then came the Spanish Flu epidemic..

And then Hillary went down with the virus..

And that was about when it all went to hell..

One of my last letters to Hillary was when she was in the depths of illness and I had an inclination that all was coming to an end..: “I have for a long time in my life had this awareness that I seem to come into things..jobs, organisations, groups etc.. just before they end…and now since I have ‘known’ you, we have gone from casual conversations of “life in general” to have this epidemic bear down, the situation of your  health…YOUR health with this flu thing and your friends also..and I had stitched my wellbeing onto our “tapestry” so that my balanced functioning depended somewhat on our regular contact..but now everything almost has been turned on its head…and I ponder how things will end…

Oh Hillary….How things have changed since we had our first “chat”….who would have thought so much would bear down on our lives…hope you are keeping warm….”

I will spare my journal the resulting disaster that followed from the passing of the once in a lifetime “meeting of minds” relationship I had with Hillary…she told me in one of her last letters from her bed that she had destroyed all my correspondence to her and made plea I would do likewise…not so much to protect reputations, but to secure from display to outsider misunderstanding of our deepest desires and fulfilment…her last line being..”Let the joy of what was yours, what was mine, remain in perpetuity..OURS”.

And there ends the tale of my close encounter with any kind of long-term relationship..certainly, I have met and courted some women before Harriet and since, but not many ..only a few in fact, as stated previous, I am not one who cherishes or needs close company and the contemplation of my thoughts in the silence of my study or before a warming fire in the lounge of my Semaphore home is enough pleasure to selfishly satisfy myself into my later years…

Now, with the coming of the stars of night, it is time to say…goodnight.