We publish quality short stories, poetry, extracts from forthcoming novels, and articles and essays on topics of social, environmental and cultural significance.ISSUE NO. 114
SPRING 2008
FICTION
The Flowers of Elizabeth David
It was simply by chance that I ended up working (very briefly) for the woman who was supposed to have revolutionised English cooking. My despairing parents had subsidised my departure for London when it had become undeniable that I would never stick at hairdressing. I had already failed as a window-dresser. So with characteristic lack of planning I arrived at a famous cooking school in order to learn to be a chef. By the second day it had become obvious that it was a finishing school for
colonial girls who had so far failed to hook one by the usual means; French cooking was intended to succeed where all else had failed.I had just enough sense to confess my doubts to the instructor who was showing signs of taking me under his wing. He was horrified when I told him what I thought I was doing at the cooking school and advised me to ask for my money back – immediately, or it would be too late. But what would I do instead? I asked. He stared at me with the blank stare of
those confronted with the truly clueless. Give me a ring tomorrow night, he said, I’ll see if I can find something for you.When I rang my new friend he gave me a number to ring and warned me it could be difficult. I had to be very careful – it was Elizabeth David. I did not dare ask who that was. But I rang the number he gave me and was summoned by a voice for an interview.
I spruced myself up as much as English shared ablutions facilities allowed and caught the tube and walked to the address I had been given. I got there early and paced the street for half an hour to make it eleven as required, then I rang the doorbell. No one answered. So I paced the street again, hoping to see a car or taxi turn up. But no. In any case I rang the doorbell again. No answer. On the third ring a voice snapped out of the wall (in Australia we did not yet have intercoms), What do you want? I explained, the intercom went dead and then ordered
me to come back at four.Trying to disguise my voice, I rang my new friend at the cooking school. He was annoyed to be interrupted but told me to go to a library and read one of her books and to try again at four. Before he hung up he told me to learn one of her recipes in case she wanted me to cook and when in doubt use cream and plenty of butter. Though I never saw him again I have carried that advice with me and I must say it has proved the best advice I have ever received.
The door was flung open at four and I was inspected on the doorstep. From inside I heard a voice demand to know what I was like. I was told to wait there and the door was closed on me. This humiliation made me determined to somehow get something from this. The door was opened again and I was told Miss David would see me now.
She was hunched over a glass of champagne, a table lamp at her elbow caught her cigarette smoke. Take him to the kitchen and see if he can open a bottle of wine, she said to the attendant who I was later to know as a woman whose parents had not had enough money to spoil her in the manner in
which she wished to be spoiled. The kitchen was a big disappointment to me, pokey in comparison to Australian ones, and gloomy. But then what did I expect? London was gloomy. There was one of those heavy-looking, old-fashioned stoves and, for heaven’s sake, one of those huge old wardrobes
people threw out at home, only it had shelves crowded with hospital-type enamel pots and enormous thick oatmeal and white bowls. On the dreadful bare wood table which looked like something you’d find in the one hundred and eight degree heat of the kitchen of a struggling sheep station was a straggle of flowers thrust into a jug my grandmother would have disposed
of. I could not open the wine in the required way. This was communicated to Miss David, I realised, by a raised eyebrow or two and a rolled eye while the back was turned to me. Miss David examined me, barked a laugh and said she supposed I’d do. I was to take her to work and bring her home again and be her assistant while she got used to the shop. I said, Excuse me,
Miss David but I don’t have a driver’s licence. This appeared to give Miss David pause. Then we’ll take a taxi, she said at last, do you think you can call a cab?
I waited outside the next day for half an hour before Miss David was ready to let me in and then sat and waited for nearly two hours before she was ready to go to the shop. Then I fetched a cab and she made the cab driver wait for twenty minutes. My job seemed to be to tell the cab driver where to go, which I could do even though I had no idea where Sloane Square was.When we got there a huge fuss was made of Miss David and I was ordered to open the champagne. Miss David sat in an office downstairs and toyed with things as she sipped. She flicked through catalogues which she said were god awful and told me to go and see if I could help in the shop.
It was a long day but I took Miss David home in the taxi with a shop assistant devotee. I was so exhausted I fell asleep as soon as I got to my own overcrowded flat on the Portobello Road.
The next day was similar and so it went. Soon I had been working for Miss David for two weeks, so I asked the most likely devoted assistant about pay. She looked me up and down and went and saw Miss David. In the taxi home Miss David extracted an envelope from her purse and handed it to me without looking at me. It proved to contain twenty pounds.
I felt it had all been worth it.By the end of the month I felt rich and knew the products so well I could recommend items for cooking things I had never seen and in any case would not have dreamt of eating in Australia. Hare? I was, though, beginning to learn something of the ways of the world. Every night I read more of her book and when I had finished it borrowed another. From my experience in the shop I grasped that the English – or quite a lot of them with money to burn, it would seem – thought Italian peasant
pottery was very delightful and that their kitchens were not complete without improbable implements developed for use in very expensive Parisian restaurants or gadgets overwrought in wire by the French in their provinces. The duck press cost almost two hundred pounds, yet I sold several. The garlic containers had obviously taught Calder a thing or two. So be it. I also learned that copper pots were very, very expensive and people loved them more than their children.Sometimes now I was ordered into Miss David’s home to serve the drinks after work. Then I was given a key so I could let myself in to wait or do anything she needed while she got ready to go to the shop in the morning.
Miss David preferred to take her after-work wine in bed with the devotees lolling around her room. They usually clutched champagne but sometimes it was another wine. I feel like a German tonight, Miss David would say and the attendant nymphs would titter and I would get the white wine from the fridge and practise my wine-opening skills. Once I was sent
with my key in the middle of the afternoon to buy some cheese and open a bottle of red, then to go back to the shop to escort Miss David home in the taxi to the breathed red and the cheese likewise. I got into trouble over the cheese and was ordered to make an omelette for Miss David and her friend to eat with the red. I was apprehensive but remembered about the cream and butter. I burnt the butter but now somewhat indifferent to the terror Miss David was accustomed to inspiring wiped it out of the immensely heavy pan and threw more – a lot more – butter in. I used seven eggs (all that were sitting rather ornamentally
in one of those crude bowls) and quite a lot of salt. I reduced some chives to a cloud and tossed them on the butter sizzling congealed eggs and cut the result in two. I knew enough to warm the plates. Miss David waved me to put the tray down and leave. Not a bad omelette, she said the next day, I must teach you about cheese. I was to go shopping with her on Saturday after she’d been sufficiently bored moping in her establishment. But this turned into Monday because ‘they’ were all over London on Saturday and then Tuesday because everyone was asleep on their feet on Monday and nothing fresh had come in after the weekend.In the end we did go on a Saturday. There is no help for it, Miss David sighed, as if about to taxi off to fight the Germans alone in her Hurricane.
We bought the cheese in Harrods. It ended up being a red
Cheshire. Miss David made quite a scene when they did not
have the blue. Always the blue, Miss David informed me in the
café where we had retreated to sulk. They’ve never recovered from the War. At Christmas, the Wensleydale. Go and make sure they will have it stocked. I abandoned my pâté sandwich to do as I was bid. Christmas was seven months or so away. The man behind the cheese counter was not pleased to see me again. As I spoke, I could see him assaying me as what was known in Australia as ‘common’. Miss David wants to know if you’ll have the Weneslieday at Christmas, I inquired. He asked me if I meant Wensleydale. I supposed so. He took his time getting out a huge register. Who wishes to order it? I spelled Miss Elizabeth David for him. Was that the lady with you? I told him it was. He now gave me a reassessing glance. There will be
a nice piece for Miss David, sir. How much will Miss David require? I said, I’ll go and find out, she’s having coffee. In our café? I heard him on the phone as I left. The pâté sandwich had gone. There was now coffee and a meringue bird’s nest of chestnut worms writhing under cream on my plate. Despite
the look of it, I devoured it. It was delicious. Miss David’s dessert was cognac. I’d say it was her drink: she became almost benign. She gazed at me as if at a breed of dog she had not encountered before. I like to see a healthy appetite, she said. There was no bill because the manageress was
honoured. Miss David wanted to know if she had known her before the War. The manageress hadn’t. That didn’t matter, they’ve never recovered.We did not go back to the shop. I was to take her home. I was to help her undress. I was nervous but unzipped her frock and either by miracle or cognac got a dressing gown that would have to do from her wardrobe. Miss David fell back onto the bed. Go now. You’re a sweet boy. You can go home early. It was not all that early.
Even though she had had Sunday to get over being nice to me, I was punished for this momentary lapse. For a few days everything I did or, more usually did not do, caused Miss David anguish. I was impossible. I could see the end in sight. Then I was offered a reprieve. Miss David received a luncheon invitation for the next Sunday. And she was to go on to an associated cocktail party after the lunch. For some reason this
made her very excited. She forgot to be irritated by my very presence. What would she wear? Who else was to be there? One of the priestesses was to ring M (not his initial) to find out. It was to be an intimate luncheon, just the two of them and maybe two old friends, no one, you know, new, I heard the priestess report. And they were all to go on to the drinks which were for someone they all knew. Another of the priestesses was one of the old friends to be at lunch, so there was some tension in the
priestess ranks.And I was to go, I was informed on Saturday when I had seen Miss David and three priestesses in and poured them a practically medicinal champagne. I was to accompany Miss David in a suit and make sure she was seated comfortably at the drinks. I had a tweed sports coat which I had bought from a street dealer (I use the term not lightly) but not a suit. In fact I had never had a suit. I thought I was quite rich. As I was not
planning to go to Greece or Spain like everyone else in my flat, I dashed to Carnaby Street, getting there just before six to the great annoyance of the assistants and bought an ugly suit. Even I could see that when I tried it on in my shared bedroom on Sunday morning. But it was a suit. I was very happy to have a suit and it was ‘in’. Bliss it was...It momentarily stopped the dither of the priestess who was also to lunch when I entered chez Elizabeth David on Sunday at eleven as ordered. Miss David’s glance fell away upon first catching sight; that speaks for its power.
She made the taxi stop at a florist’s. I don’t know if she was on
something or not but she had become a leopard. Now all terrifying and astonishing ruthless extravagance, she prowled around demanding to inspect bales of flowers. I did not know flowers but I’d say she bought armfuls of demandingly selected hollyhocks, gladioli, gillyflowers (A bit late, she pronounced but... the scent at night when he comes in will remind him of.. ) and snapdragons (A bit early, aren’t they? Hot house, I suppose) and put them on my bill. Certainly not! to the roses. I shouldered them to the cab and sat under them in front with the driver. I sneezed all the way to St Johns Wood and was ordered to stop doing so as I struggled after Miss David and up the steps to the front door.M looked at me aghast then collected himself and said he had given the butler the day off so it was good I had been brought. Then he eyed me with a twinkle which I was just beginning to dimly interpret, so I felt my presence might not be completely unsavoury. We were ushered into a conservatory in which a table was set. I was delighted to be in a conservatory for the first time and began to feel rather at home for I had been to see the film The Importance of Being Earnest and to my eyes
this one was just like the one in the film. I thought I might tell M so. Unfortunately (or otherwise) I didn’t get the chance. I was ordered to take the flowers into the kitchen and to make myself useful. M guided me to the kitchen.I was given a bottle of wine to open and with some satisfaction noted that M was impressed by the flourish of my wrist. You can serve, he said, I’ll pour. When he became aware I was following him back to the lovely conservatory he stopped. Arrange the flowers, he said, The vases are in the cupboards. I ransacked the kitchen, found some of the rough French provincial wine glasses Miss David sold, wiped one out with a clean napkin
as Miss always did before pouring wine and opened myself a nice white. There was a stool in the kitchen. I dragged it to the bench where I had been told to lay the trussed flowers. I looked at them and sipped. Then I brought out some of the vases I had discovered. And I sipped some more. I liberated the flowers from their bondage. I had never put a flower in a vase in my life. I took another sip. I was dreadfully uncomfortable in
my new suit and sitting on the stool so I stood up and took my coat off. There was nowhere to hang it so I folded it neatly and put it on the floor in a corner. Then I started to disentangle the flowers. I began grouping them. M appeared. He stopped in his tracks and stared at the wine in my hand, at me, at the opened bottle of wine on the bench. Truly I had had the English. It’s Sunday, I said. His mouth fell open but slowly shut again. Well hurry up with that, she’ll want to see them before she leaves. I have to get the feel of them, I said. This created a similar response. You can serve the asparagus now, M more suggested than stated. I was in no hurry. I tried some for I realised I was terribly hungry, in fact starving and had been since I had arrived in this awful country. I preferred tinned myself.
I rearranged the spears and bore them into the conservatory where everyone was eating bread and butter. That looks nice, I said before putting the plate down. Miss David cut me a piece and buttered it. I bore it back
to the kitchen to eat while I considered what else was on offer.Many, many years later after having returned to Australia, I had
cause to be in London again. In an idle moment and aswamp
with nostalgia I requested and was granted access to Miss
David’s papers. I was hoping to find a reference to myself. I cannot really claim I was disappointed not to do so but I did find what I take to be an account of the lunch.Asparagus perfectly cooked, wrapped in Parma prosciutto, shaved reggiano.
Potato salad, well seasoned, very finely chopped Spanish onion, well-judged olive oil, dill, smoked salmon – Scotch, sliced near bone, well-cured. Eggs boiled and cooled properly – very fresh.
Good tomato salad with beetroot.
Bread, excellent (bakery?)
Tart pastry a little heavy.
Texture (M’s name)! But well done.
Wine – Australian Riesling, very good indeed. (This surprised and delighted me for I had drunk careless of the bottles’ provenance).I know this was the lunch or one identical, for I ate of it. Getting a piece of the tart which I could hardly help myself to before bearing it to the table was the biggest challenge.
While they had coffee I placed the flowers, which I had sorted roughly according to colour, into the vases which were too small on the whole.
M came back into the kitchen, on the floor of which I was now sitting near my coat, gazing at my artistry. He stared at me and then at my creations. Get up, he said, they’re getting ready to go. And you’d better get some coffee into you.
As we were all about to leave, Miss David pulled a small flat parcel out of her bag and pushed it at M. He opened it. It was a white Irish linen tea towel bordered by a line of sage leaves. I knew what it cost retail. After shaking it out, M pressed it to his face and said, Mmmm, I can smell the sage. Miss David barked her laugh. This was the second and final time I heard it. It was like that of a seal without laryngitis.
The taxi took us to Belgravia. The driver was embarrassed when I tried to engage him in conversation. I fell silent, reflecting that Miss David had not seen my arrangements which I had fallen in love with. I felt she would have at last seen that I had a gift beyond that for the omelette.
The cocktail party was in a house like a grand department store and as crowded as one having a sale. Miss David, with her retinue, was bowed to and surreptitiously glanced at as she was guided on her regal way to a flimsy gilded chair with a tapestry seat. Champagne was brought, a cigarette was lit. They began to queue to crawl to her. Another champagne. I accepted one. Until this moment I had been forgotten or obliviated but
the arc of a proffered glass of alcohol caught her attention. You’d better leave now, she said. I moved off with my glass and ate some sandwiches and had jokes with some charming fellows before I did so. It was the best time I had had since arriving in London. I blame it for the fact that I was to remain in that city until it had corrupted my morals and manners. At some point I saw Miss David glaring at me in what was unmistakably fury. She could still scare me, so remembering my manners I went up to her host and thanked him for having me (no trouble old chap, do come to dinner next time) and left.The excitement of rehashing the party saw me through Monday but on Tuesday she had begun to dash baleful looks at me. On Wednesday afternoon I was summoned from the shop to the office. Go and see what he did with the flowers. I may not take a taxi. What will I say? What if he’s not in? Don’t be silly ... Just say I sent you to thank him for the lovely lunch. And me too, said the priestess who had been in on the hatching of this malign task. Make sure you see the flowers.
I set out for St Johns Wood, their unvocalised cackles making my back cold.
I found chez M. I rang the doorbell. And jumped when it opened and he was there. I had been sure he would not be or the butler (did he really have one?) would be and had been intent on deciding whether I would go back to the shop. I had no idea what to say. He certainly said nothing. So I said she sent me to get a look at what you’d done with the flowers. He stared at me then roared with laughter. Tell her I assaulted them, he declared and shut the door in my face.
This upset me very much. So much that I decided I would go back and just repeat his mad and probably obscene words. However on the train I decided I’d had enough for one day and though it was nowhere near knocking off time took myself to the pictures.
The next day I was greeted with icy silence (the strongest of all her considerable talents, I venture). The taxi ride to work would have been horrendous had I not been full of fury myself and amused. Though I knew I was way out of my depth I was no longer hanging on for dear life. I had enough money to last without working for a while, I had a suit and could maybe get another job even in Carnaby Street, or how exciting, on the Kings Road. Miss Elizabeth David could get lost.
I applied myself to my duties in the shop.
The priestess who had luncheoned told me Miss David would see me to hear about the flowers now. She followed me down to the office. Miss David pretended to be absorbed in her non-work while she kept me standing there. Urumph, I went. He said to tell you he’d assaulted them.
Her gaze plumbed my soul but could not get a bearing. In my turn I examined her as her look of astonishment turned to rage, then hatred. The priestess lurking in the background made a gasp which was so ill-timed it rather ruined everything. I brushed past her and went back to work.
The next day I was met by the priestess as soon as my key entered Miss David’s front door. Miss David no longer required my services. An envelope was proffered. I took it. Miss David would like her key back. I opened the envelope. It contained some notes. What about my bonus? some convict spirit made me say. The gasp this time was not affected. Wait here. The door was shut in my face. This was a mistake for my rage
now turned icily determined. And it gave me the opportunity to see how much the old bitch was paying me off with. One hundred pounds! The priestess opened the door clutching a similar bundle of notes. I took the bundle, handed the key over before turning on my heel.Two hundred was more than quite a lot in those days.
IAN MACNEILL has been slipping back and forth across the borders of memory and imagination. Another example of his work can be found on the gay-ebooks web site (www.gay-ebooks.com. au) in their Queer Hearts free download, ‘Le Baiser de a Fée – Dinner with Patrick White’.
You have no English?
George perches on the edge of his leather recliner in the lounge, his white singlet soaking the beads of sweat on his chest. Black hairs peep from above his singlet and sit below his double chin like a shabby bush. His hazel eyes are fixed on the screen and meticulously follow the man in blue and white. He shifts in his seat and strengthens his grip on the controller, until his thumbs cramp. His stumpy fingers push the buttons frantically and propel his man forward in this crucial semifinal against the Turks.
‘Oh my god, oh my god,’ he murmurs, his heart slamming against his chest. ‘Yes! Oh my god, YES!’ He jumps off the recliner, joystick in hand, eyes glued to the screen. He pauses the game and starts running around the lounge as quickly as his short legs will allow him.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Oh my god, Sheree! You gotta look at this! They’ve given me a penalty in front of goal!’
‘And?’
‘What do you mean AND? It’s the semifinal! Greece will play for the championship if I get this! You don’t understand –’
‘What I understand, George,’ she says, looking at his flabby stomach pushing against his damp singlet, ‘is that the striker in the game got the penalty, not you. You wouldn’t last a friggin’ minute in a real game! They’d have to scoop your flabby arse from around the field!’
‘Yeah well, at least I have an arse!’ he screams.
She smirks at him with thin lips and walks to the adjoining kitchen. George watches her small arse grind against her grey tracksuit pants and a piercing heat stabs his groin. He looks at the TV; he reckons a minute of exercise can only benefit the team. Plus doesn’t he deserve a little something off-field for his stellar performance for team Greece? For the goal he’s going to nail? For assisting with the demise of the Turki?
He watches Sheree at the sink washing dishes. Her skinny hands dip in and out of the soapy water, her wet, slippery fingers rinsing a mug in a circular motion. His breath quickens and he rushes through the kitchen.
‘Hey, Sheree,’ he whispers, standing behind her. He comes closer, squeezing her arse with his palms. ‘How about –’
‘Get away from me, George,’ she says, shoving him with her hip. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re squeezing. I don’t have an arse, remember?’
‘Ah, screw you,’ he says as he walks back to the recliner.
‘No, go screw your friggin’ X-box!’
He ignores her as he sits in the lounge and wills George Jr to focus. After all, the bitch is the one missing out. He shifts in his seat and stretches his legs in preparation for his penalty shootout. He wriggles his fingers and stretches his arms.
‘You ready, Ronaldo?’ asks Sheree, looking up from the sink.
‘Wrong team, genius. At least call me Amanatidis or Charisteas or even –’
‘I don’t give a shit, George.’
‘Then don’t talk soccer with me!’ He clutches the controller, leans back in his recliner, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The doorbell shatters his meditation and he jumps in his seat.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake! Sheree! Get the door!’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m washing the dishes! Get off your arse and open it yourself!’
George closes his eyes once more and leans back in the recliner. ‘Nah, they’ll go away soon enough.’
‘You’re such a lazy arse!’
‘Yeah, well at least I’m not a friggin’ bitch!’
The incessant doorbell prevents further argument. George moves his chubby frame to a sitting position and looks dismally at Sheree’s nonchalant form and then at the door. His beady eyes squint with frustration.
‘Yeah, all right, I’m coming!’ He shuffles towards the irritating sound, knocking his right knee on the gold Aphrodite statue in the hall. ‘Shit!’ He clutches the stinging flesh and throws open the door. ‘What?’
‘Lütfen! Lütfen!’
‘Huh?’ He stares at the shaking woman, dumbfounded. ‘Um... can I help?’
‘Lütfen!’ she screams, waving her hands frantically. Tears cling to her wrinkled cheeks and she wipes her face with the side of her brown head scarf. She grabs his damp singlet and pulls him forward.
‘Sheree! Come quick –’
‘What? Who is it?’
‘Shut up and come here quick! Some Muslim woman’s attacking me!’ He tries to move her hands away gently but the old woman clasps his fingers and tries to drag him forward. He releases one arm and fingers the gold cross against his chest.
‘I should be so lucky,’ says Sheree, as she materialises at the door. ‘Oh my God! George, what’s going on?’
‘I don’t know! She’s goin’ nuts!’
‘Lütfen,’ begs the woman in a frail voice, releasing George. She rushes towards Sheree, grasping her hands. She points to the house across the road.
‘You no have English?’ says George.
‘What the hell do you think? Look at her, she obviously needs help!’
‘I know, Sheree!’
‘Oh sure! I suppose you realised in the middle of her so-called attack! She’s at least seventy years old, for heaven’s sake!’
‘Just shut up.’
‘Lütfen!’ shrieks the old woman, gesturing again to the house. Her frantic fingers squeeze Sheree’s and her knuckles are white from her vicelike grip.
‘OK,’ says Sheree, and nods her head vigorously. She tightens her grip on the woman’s hand and feels the prickle of rough skin against her own. She follows the weeping woman across the road and puts an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s OK,’ she says, not quite sure what she’s promising. ‘It’s going to be OK.’ The woman continues to cry, mumbling words in guttural tones.
‘I never noticed Muslims living across the road,’ wheezes George, as he catches up to the women. He hops on one foot, trying to put on a sneaker.
‘You don’t notice anything, George.’
He gives Sheree an indignant look. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing! And why are you following us anyway? I’m sure you’ve got much better things to do than be helpful. Go kick the stupid goal for Greece. The house is all yours.’
‘Yeah right! Like I’m gonna let you go in there alone with the Muslims!’ ‘You’re unbelievable,’ says Sheree, shaking her head as they cross the manicured front lawn of the double-storey house. ‘You really are blind.’
They walk to the porch and the front door lies open like a parched mouth. Several shoes are scattered beneath the door like black teeth. The woman releases Sheree’s hands, kicks off her brown slippers and hurries into the house motioning with anxious fingers for them to follow.
‘Sheree, we supposed to take off our shoes or what?’
‘I’m not wearing any.’
He looks at her bare toes and takes off his sneakers. He walks inside and cringes at the smell of garlic and coffee that assaults his flat nose. Worse than walking into a mouth with bad breath, he thinks. The house is dark and a snakelike staircase curls in the middle of the spacious living room. The black leather couches sit in a semicircle like wrinkly Mediterranean men at a coffee shop. The grey Venetians are closed, preventing the afternoon sun from an unwanted intrusion.
The old woman hobbles up the stairs. Her brown cotton dress brushes the surface of her chubby feet with each quick step. Sheree follows and spies a big blue ornament with an eye in the centre at the foot of the stairs, guarding the residence. Bits of light hit its dark blue retina and it stands erect like a lighthouse guiding the way of clueless ships.
‘Hey, I’ve seen one of them,’ whispers George, as he walks up the stairs and follows the women down a narrow corridor. ‘It’s to ward off the evil eye or somethin’ stupid like that.’
‘Yeah to keep the likes of you out,’ says Sheree. ‘I might get one.’
‘Ha ha.’ George eyes the bedrooms lining the corridor and spots a Turkish flag in one. The crescent and star twinkle at him in the same mocking way it had throughout the semifinal match. His heart skips as he remembers the critical goal that awaits his return at home. The goal that will bury the Turki.
The woman’s sobs increase as she approaches the last door on the left. She turns the knob and clutches Sheree for support. They walk in and George waits near the door. The woman releases a heart-wrenching wail and walks around the double bed clinging to Sheree.
‘Oh my god! Oh my god, George, come quick!’
‘What?’ he asks, pushing past Sheree and the weeping woman. He sees the old man lying on his stomach, his arms resting by his sides like broken wings. His head is twisted to the left; his right cheek squashed against the white carpet. His mouth is open, and two gold teeth peek from behind frozen lips. Saliva has pooled below his chin and his left eye looks at George with an empty stare. ‘Shit.’
The distraught woman kneels down and caresses the man’s back. Her crooked fingers smooth the creases of his grey pyjamas. Sheree sits next to the woman and rocks with her, back and forth. Their tears unite to wet the man’s hair and tiny droplets of salt cling to his white strands like morning dew.
‘Sheree, get the phone quick! Call an ambulance!’ George nods
towards the phone beside the bed. ‘Don’t just sit there! Go!’ He kneels down on the carpet and touches the man’s neck. ‘Shit shit shit.’
Sheree releases the woman, grabs the phone and dials the number with shaking hands. ‘Um, hello, yes,’ she says, with a trembling voice.
‘Um address...shit...um look I’m not sure of the house number but my address is 12 Wyatt St, Coburg. It’s the house across the road with the nice lawn. Yeah, it’s my neighbour. It’s double-storey. Look we’ll meet you outside! No, I don’t know what’s wrong with him... a heart attack maybe... I don’t know! Look, please just hurry!’ Sheree hangs up and sits beside George and watches the woman sob onto the man’s back. She has embraced him and is rocking him gently. Sheree squeezes George’s
arm and buries her face in his shoulder.
‘That poor woman...’ she whispers into his skin.
‘I know.’ George looks around the room and notices a photo of a
middle- aged couple and two teenage children on the night stand. ‘How do we contact these people? We don’t have a name, nothin’.’ He looks at his watch. ‘It’s 3.30. Someone should come home soon.’ He turns his head towards Sheree and kisses her lips. He wipes her wet face, gets up and offers her a hand. ‘Come on, Sheree, you go meet the ambo, I’ll stay here.’Move away, please! Move out of the way!’ The ambulance officer pushes through the neighbours gathered in the front yard like M vultures. They make room for the stretcher, shake their heads and mumble under their breath as it passes them by.
A middle-aged woman with wiry grey hair dabs her face with a tissue. Her multicoloured headband drapes across her head like a rainbow among grey clouds. A mole the size of a pea is perched on the edge of her chin. Her brown eyes follow the ambulance until it disappears down the street. She spots the weeping old woman clinging to Sheree and she shuffles towards them, fingering her mole. ‘Ba in sa olsun, Abla,’ she murmurs, embracing the old woman. ‘Nasil oldu?’
George listens to the two women talk in their language. He eyes the neighbour and tries not to stare at her hairy mole. She catches him and gives him a scathing look. ‘I lives dis house, next door,’ she says, poking George. She adjusts her headband, turns back to the whimpering woman, and continues their conversation. ‘OK, so you know the family then.’
The woman faces George. ‘Yes, but just neighbour. She Turkish, I too. When she find husband in room she come my house but I no home. No one Turkish in street. She live wit daughter family but dey work.’ She gives her attention to the old woman who mumbles something. ‘She tank you,’ she says, gesturing to George and Sheree. ‘Tanks you very much for help.’
‘Wish we could have done more,’ says Sheree.
‘No, no you help very big.’
‘We should take her inside –’
‘Oh, you no worry, I looks after her. You go home. I call family,’ she says, waving at Sheree. She grabs the old woman’s arm and leads her back to the house.
‘But –’
‘Let it go, Sheree. We’ve done all we can for now,’ says George, putting his arm around her waist. ‘She’s gonna be OK.’
‘I don’t know...’
‘We’ll come back later to check up on her, promise. It’s better for her to be with people she knows right now.’ George gives her a light squeeze and walks her home.The house is quiet except for the sound of water that drips in the kitchen sink like tears. George leads Sheree to the double couch and they sit huddled together, listening to the soft trickle. ‘Just like that, it’s over, George,’ she says, clicking her fingers. ‘Just like that.’ ‘I know.’ ‘It’s just not fair.’
‘Sometimes life isn’t.’ He kisses her brow and lays her down on the couch.
‘I’ll make you somethin’ to drink. Your green tea.’
‘No milk,’ she mumbles, closing her eyes.
‘I know.’ He gets up and nearly trips over his X-box. He tries to free his foot from the cords and displaces the plug in his haste. He looks at the TV in time to see the blue and white striker disappear in the dark square mouth.
DEMET DIVAROREN has a diploma in Professional Writing and Editing from Victoria University. In 2007, she won the Williamstown People’s Choice award for her short story Toey. Demet has completed her first novel Orayt? which was short-listed in the 2008 Varuna Awards for Manuscript Development. She lives in the northern suburbs of Melbourne.
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