'Broadbeans' - A Short Story for Children

This is a short story I wrote for, The NSW School Magazine. Based on a true story, it covers the grief and confusion a child may experience when losing a grandparent.

Broad Beans

by Jane Bloomfield

Mum got the call one afternoon before school was out. Lucy and Ben had to wait with the next door neighbour. When she got home she held their hands too tightly and said, “Chester died this afternoon – I'm sorry.”

Chester – was our grandfather and the maker of swings and silly songs. He was also the grower of beans, all sorts of beans, most especially Broad Beans.

Over the next few days people kept bringing casseroles and lumps of meat. Lucy wondered who would eat them. She felt empty but she wasn't hungry. It must have been all those tears inside her.

“What's all that food for?” said Lucy to Gran, who was trying to stuff a piece of corned beef into the fridge.

“Darn it!” said Gran. She pushed her shoulder into the fridge door then slipped quietly onto the floor. Lucy curled into her lap and Gran gently rocked her, like she used to when she was a baby. They stayed like that for a while. Then, as if nothing had happened Gran scrambled up and said, “People always bring food at a time like this.”  

The next morning she overheard Gran saying; funeral and 1pm and church and wake at the cottage. When Ben yelled, “Luce, time for school,” his voice sounded different.

“I don't want to go,” said Lucy.

“We have to go,” said Ben. “Come on.”

Lucy let him drag her backwards down the path, while she kept an eye on more strangers arriving with plates.

At lunch, Lucy went to look for Ben. “Want your brother?” said a big boy swinging on the maypole. “He went home.”

The school bell rang the end of lunch. 1pm - church – funeral.   Ben must have gone without me. They've all gone without me. Everything became incredibly bright, as if the sun had pierced Lucy's eyes and was shining inside her head. The twirling maypole sprinkled white stars. A wild roar rang in her ears all the way home.

The little cottage was empty. They must be still at the church. Lucy crouched beside the grapefruit tree and waited. Soon cars started arriving. Men in dark suits and pale women in stiff dresses with matching hats filed in.

Chatting, laughing people spilled onto the front lawn. Gran handed around sandwiches and her Mum handed around drinks in crystal glasses. This must be the a-wake part – it's more like a party. Everyone was talking about the same thing, about Chester. They chinked their glasses for him. They said: “What a good joker he was” - “a real family man” - “loved his grandkids” -  “especially Lucy” - “a pity to bury him so young” - “I always hate the church bit” -  “poor bugger” ...

Lucy found it comforting listening to the grownups talk about Chester. But spying was wrong, so she made a run for it down the side of the house and hid behind the compost heap. The warm grass clippings sweated in the sun and gave off a strange musty odour - a bit like Chester's work socks used to.

          As the afternoon wore on she took shelter in the corrugated iron woodshed. Just as she'd settled into to her new hiding place she heard footsteps – and sobs. Ben appeared at the entrance of the shed and plonked himself down on the chopping block. His back was towards Lucy hidden in the shadows, his head hung in his hands.

Lucy had been so busy feeling sorry for herself; she hadn't thought what anyone else might be feeling. “Do you want to borrow this Ben?” she said, offering him her soggy hanky.

Ben jumped up. “What are you doing here? Why aren't you at school?”

“Why aren't you?” said Lucy.

“Because I'm older,” said Ben. “I guess.”

“Does that mean you don't get sad,” said Lucy.

“No,” said Ben, sucking in his tears and spitting into the dust.

“You're only ten,” said Lucy.

“I know,” said Ben.

As the last of the mourners left the cottage through the front door, Lucy and Ben appeared at the back, their faces smudged brown with dust and dried tears. The fronts of their shirts bulged with broad beans.

Gran was putting some leftovers into the fridge. “Any lemonade left, Gran, I'm really thirsty,” said Lucy.

“Yes dear. Hot day at school by the looks,” said Gran.

“Yep, really hot,” said Lucy. “Ben helped me pick some beans for Chester. I'd like to go and see him,” said Lucy.

“You mean see his grave, up at the cemetery?” said Gran.

“Yes, his grave. To say goodbye,” said Lucy.

At that moment Mum walked into the kitchen and hugged Lucy and Ben close.

            “We'd probably all like to say a quiet goodbye now, wouldn't we,” said Gran.

So Lucy and her Mum packed a bottle of lemonade and some leftover sandwiches into a wicker basket. While Ben helped Gran back out the Holden. Then they drove up the hill to the cemetery – as the sun set they scattered Chester's beans on the fresh mound of dirt. And said goodbye.

Little Red Riding Hood & The Other Wolf, a YA Tale

I wrote this for The 2012 Grimms Fairy Tale competition run by the Goethe Institute Wellington. After the main prize winners were drawn, all entries were posted on their website over the course of 2013 and rated/commented on. The most applauded tales will be published in a collection at the by Xmas 2014. Meanwhile here is my story again...Happy Valentines lovers!

 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD AND THE OTHER WOLF by Jane Bloomfield

Once upon a time, there lived a wolf, a very strange wolf.
‘Look Mr Wolf, do you really expect me to hand over a muffin every Saturday. Just because you stand on two legs and bare your yellow fangs at me. You really need to use whitening toothpaste BTW,’ said Little Red Riding Hood.

‘Give me one,’ said Mr Wolf.
‘Nope.’
‘Give me a muffin.’
‘Doubt it.’
‘I’ll tear that awful red hoodie of yours, if you don’t.’
‘What evs.’
‘I’ll bite you.’
‘I’ll bite you back. Well, I wouldn’t actually; I’d get a gob full of fur. You really need to brush yourself. You fur coat is manky as.’
‘Look, I was kicked out of home as a young whelp. No one taught me to hunt. I’m starving. I live off nuts and berries and roots.’
‘How can you? You must have those things…wha da ya call em? Oh yeah - instincts. You’re a meat eater.’
‘My meat eating gene must have mutated. I’m a vegetarian.’
‘Aww hun that really stuffs up this fairy tale doesn’t it. You don’t even want to eat me?’
‘Please Little-hood-red-riding.’
‘My name is Little-red-riding-hood. Red for short.’
‘Look Red. You’re right - I don’t want to eat you. But I’d KILL you just to get one of your muffins.’ At that point the wolf sprang towards Red, knocking her to the ground.
Furious, she kicked and squirmed and somehow managed to get out from under the skinny wolf. Then she jumped to her feet and shouted. ‘Totes inappropes, Mr Wolf.’ Before he could respond she grabbed her basket, thankfully still intact, and ran off singing. ‘Jingle bells wolf-y smells, girly got away.’
Slowly, hungry Mr Wolf staggered onto his feet. Then with his tail between his legs and his nose to the leafy path, he tracked Red’s scent. At least he could follow his prey, even if he had no desire to eat it.
The sun peeked through the high bush canopy. Red, so happy she’d got rid of smelly Mr Wolf, skipped off the path in search of Bluebells. The flowers were sparsely dotted about and she soon found herself deep in the bush. Oopsie. Her Dad (the local firewood supplier), told her never to go off the path. She sat down, plucked a piece of fern and tied it around her posy. Music played loud in her headphones, she leant back against a tree and shut her eyes.
Bad move. It didn’t take long for the now VERY hungry Mr Wolf to find her. As she dozed he helped himself to a muffin. They were still warm. Then another.
Red tensed. She knew Mr Wolf was beside her. His smell was so wolf-y. As he gobbled down one muffin after another, she tried not to move a muscle. She hoped he’d be in a better mood once he’d eaten.
By and by Mr Wolf let out an enormous burp. Then he flopped down beside her. His stomach bulged. ‘Sorry Red,’ he said. ‘I’ve scoffed all the muffins. They were delicious BTW.’
‘Great. This isn’t the story of the big fat pig you know. What am I going to take to Granny now?’ said Red.
The wolf shrugged and burped again. ‘I could be sick,’ he said.
‘Eww. I’m outta here.’
‘See ya. Same time, same place,’ said Mr Wolf, rubbing his tummy and licking his chops.
‘In your dreams, fur-ball,’ muttered Red. She back tracked and finally arrived at Granny’s house. ‘Granny you won’t believe what happened.’
‘Try me.’
So Red told her story. ‘A vegetarian wolf hey? Now I know who’s been raiding my veg patch. And I thought it was Peter Rabbit. Don’t panic I have the perfect solution for bullies who help themselves to fresh goods,’ she said, patting the side of her nose with her forefinger.
The following Saturday Red set off as usual with her basket of freshly baked muffins. Only the top layer of muffins contained Granny’s secret ingredient.
‘Sup Red?’ said Mr Wolf, as Red walked along the path.
‘Don’t try and be young and cool Mr Wolf. It’s tragic. Seriously.’
‘Mmmm, those muffins smell good Red.’
‘Want one? White chocolate and raspberry,’ said Red, in her kindest voice.
‘What, I don’t have to follow you and dress up in your Granny’s nightie?’ said Mr Wolf.
‘Nope.’
‘I smell a rat.’
‘Why? Do my ears look big?’
‘No.’
‘Do my eyes look big?’
‘No bigger than usual.’
‘Does my mouth look big?’
‘Just pouty.’
‘Well, would you like a muffin or not?’
‘I still smell a rat.’
‘No you smell sweet chocolate fruit muffins. Come on you know you want one.’
Red waved a moist jumbo muffin under Mr Wolf’s snout. Silvery strands of saliva hung from his jagged jaw. His stomach growled as he ran his long pink tongue over his yellow fangs. Next thing, he swallowed the muffin whole.
‘Here have another,’ said Red. ‘And another.’ Chomp. Soon those six special muffins were gone.
The wolf rubbed his swollen tummy. ‘My they were filling. I think I need a lie down.’ He slumped onto a soft fern.
‘Toodles then. I’m off. See you round. Not.’ Red skipped off down the path till she was out of sight, then she sprinted to Granny’s cottage. It wouldn’t take long for the special salts to take effect. ‘Jingle bells, wolf-y swells, girly ran away.’
‘Did he eat them?’ asked Granny when she arrived.
‘Yep. All six of them.’
‘He’ll probably go gluten free after that.’
‘Probably.’ Red started giggling. So did Granny. Soon they were rolling around on the rug holding their stomachs. Until a Fantail flitted into the cottage and dipped and dived above them, like he was giving them a good telling off.
‘Oh dear. I hope we haven’t taken things too far?’ said Granny.
Just then, Red’s dad appeared at the cottage door. ‘Did that pesky old wolf leave me a muffin for morning tea?’ he asked.
‘Have you seen the wolf this morning?’ said Granny.
‘Yes. He was hopping from tree to tree like a three legged cat,’ said Dad.
‘That’s a relief,’ said Granny.
Granny, Red and her dad were enjoying herb tea and muffins on the porch when Mr Wolf appeared.
‘I wouldn’t eat those if I were you,’ said Mr Wolf. ‘Gave me more than a stomach ache.’ Then the wolf’s yellow eyes flickered. ‘Unless that was some kind of payback. It if was, I think we can call it quits now. You?’
‘Quits,’ said Granny and Red together.
‘I have an idea,’ said Red. ‘How bout you drop the creepy following act and be Granny’s guard-wolf. Someone’s been stealing her vegetables. And Granny has special salts for people who help themselves. Don’t you Granny.’
‘I do Red. I do,’ said Granny.
So the old wolf took up residence in Granny’s wood shed. He dutifully guarded her garden day and night in exchange for vegetables. Mostly he looked forward to Red’s muffins on Saturdays. Some days he took a stroll in the bush, but he made sure he never crept up on anyone, ever again.
So Red, her Dad, Granny and Mr Wolf all lived happily ever after.

This is what Steve Braunias had to say about my story: Wonderful story! I love the way dialogue can tell a story and this was a great example. I also loved the "BTW"s and the "totes", the way they set the tone of a modern children's story. The whimsical humour moved the story along swiftly, towards an almost sad ending. 

Thanks Steve
& Thank you Goethe Institute for giving all the many and varied luscious tales an airing.

An Xmas E Gift For YOU

I’ve had a busy writing year, with a notable jump sideways from children's fiction into a new money making scribery venture. As usual, a considerable amount of my time has been spent trying to SELL work. Not manuscripts this time but non fiction stories. 

However, I discovered that getting my wordy pieces into the glossies is just as jolly hard as getting them into kiddy trade publications. Even on the backbone of my Sunday Star Times success (which btw will be in the Sunday Magazine 19th or 26th January 2014). Doh. I can’t believe I was so delusional. 

Don't you want me baby? Yes ME? Not straight away? Really?

Of course, all magazines have staff, plus their body of contributing writers. Freelancers are not treated well, often not paid for ages etc etc, so an extremely witty twitter journo friend of mine @beckeleven told me. Personally, so far I've had good experiences when commissioned.

But once again thank heavens for the blogosphere; keeping gazillions of writers from going completely bonkers. Allowing them to think, write, edit and press ‘publish’. Weekly, bi-weekly, daily if necessary. Ahhh.

The establishment will never make me give up…any genre. I plan to give my children’s fiction another nudge next year – all thanks to the encouragement of my lovely friends in that arena. You know who YOU are.

Anyway, as I prepare to depart the land of the long white cloud for a white and chilly Xmas in the northern hemisphere, I would like to leave all you lovely readers. Yes YOU! With a Xmas gift.

In the way of a short story, penned by moi.

A little holiday reading for when you’re sitting on the deck chair under the pohutakawa tree, sipping a chunky chardonnay and choffing another of nana’s homemade mince pies.

 

Enjoy!

ps. If anyone feels inclined, after they have consumed their first vino and read my story, to type out comments on whatever handheld device is handy, and press send, I would be happy to receive them.

pps. Next year this story may not be free. You may be able to download it off Amazon for $2.99. Because I think the time has come for me to take the selling of my work into my own hands. Unless of course some lovely trade publisher wants to BUY my story for a ‘Summer Anthology of NEW New Zealand Writing’ or some such.

Happy reading!

"Riders on The Storm"

 a short story by Jane Bloomfield

It was the end of a decade, New Year’s Eve, 1979. The air was full of promise and brown Hawkes Bay heat. Bruce had scabbed invites off a boarding school mate to a dance at Ocean Beach. He picked me up from our orchard on the Napier/Hastings road around midday. Dad had been going on all holidays about the drought and apple prices. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

We bought a crate of Tui at the Happy Tav in Havelock North. Then pointed the Kingswood to the beach. The road and our hopes snaking through the burnt grassland of summer.

I had a holiday job at a record store in Napier. I’d made one of my chill-out compilations for the trip. I flipped in the cassette and cranked it up. The Doors’, Riders on the Storm, serenaded us. We wound down the windows, hung out our arms and strummed the beast’s doors, dreaming about getting up close to a beautiful girl. I don’t know about Bruce, but I tingled from head to toe I felt so alive.

‘Girl ya gotta love your man,’ we sang together.

We pulled in to the, Tuki Tuki River before the bridge, for a swim. The grey stones were burning hot on our bare feet and the river was so low we just sat down fully clothed in the nearest pool. The water kinda stunk like an old eel but we didn’t care. We laid back and shared our first cool beer. Bruce fished for green weed with a willow branch. He always did that.

After a bit, I arranged the speakers on the bank and cranked it up. The afternoon ticked by while we drank, soaked up the rays and listened to our favourite tunes. All the words melding together like one big boys-own bible. We took turns changing the cassette and starting up the beast so’s we didn’t end up with a flat battery.

Our threads were dry again by the time we hit the party. The woolshed was practically on the beach. Tidy sets of rollers peeled along the shore break beyond the dunes. The evening sea breeze skipped tumbleweeds along the blond sand.

As the sun dipped behind the cliff, we ran our fingers through our hair, tucked in our t-shirts and walked in. Guys in moleskins and aertex shirts lined the walls, stamping their mark all over that place like a farmers name on a wool bale. They stared at us and we stared back. We found a possie by a wool press, plonked down our crate and tried to look like part of the furniture.

It took ages to warm up. Carloads slowly started arriving. Eventually some of the female kind.

‘Go on Gazza ask her to dance,’ said Bruce. ‘You’ve been gawping at her for half an hour.’

‘Have not. Anyways, she’ll never say yes.’ I was smiling like a halfwit. ‘I think I’m in love.’

‘She’s a fox.’

‘And I’m Basil Brush.’

We burst out laughing. No one got our stupid jokes. Me and Bruce had been mates since primary school, although we’d drifted apart a bit. He’d given me major hass when I said I was staying on at Boys High to do UE and maybe Bursary. He’d got his four subjects School C and bailed. Literally. He was a shearer. Anything to get away from his old man and the farm. Him and me both.

I bent down and got out two bottles from our crate. Then gripped one between my thighs and popped the cap with the other. ‘Down the hatch,’ I said handing it to Bruce.

‘Cheers. If ya can’t get shagged get stupid,’ said Bruce.

I took an involuntary glimpse in her direction. A cow cocky was chewing the fat with her. Cocky’s right. He was practically glued to her. Except she kept looking over her shoulder in my direction.

‘Off ya go ya hunk of spunk,’ said Bruce. ‘I’m going to ask that nice wallflower over there for a dance. She looks lonely.’

Bruce always went for the easy option.

Next thing, Bruce pushed me out onto the dance floor. I stood there looking like a tossa. My beautiful girl was now side on to me. The curve of her body framed by her long brown hair. I inched in her direction. Her white t-shirt was tied in a knot at her waist. She had a strip of tanned skin above her Wranglers. Man she was a sight for sore eyes.

As the music died down she swivelled face on to me. About six feet away now. She had two strands of puka shells wrapped round her neck and a shark’s tooth on a strand of thin leather. And talk about a Colgate smile. All of a sudden, like a flamin miracle she pushed passed the cow cocky. Sliding her heavy heeled boots side to side over the greasy wooden floor, dipping her lean hips round and round out into the room. Closer.

When she got within a foot she spun around. Then that dipstick cow cockey joined her, doing some sort of Staying Alive impersonation. What a homo.

I was just stood there dancing in slow-mo. Then Bruce came up behind me. ‘He’s her brother.’

‘Get off the grass.’

‘I should know I went to school with him. Off ya go Romeo. Man or mouse,’ shouted Bruce and shoved me again.

Next thing ELO came on. Bruce’s song. We went ape-shit, strutting around like a couple of peacocks. Screaming, Don’t Bring me Down B R U C E, as loud as we could. To this day Bruce still maintains his name’s in the lyrics.

We were both pretty messy by then. Some olds appeared with a trestle table of supper. Sausage rolls and ham sandwiches. And another bowl of fruit punch. They probably hoped it would soak up some of the beer and Blenheimer, so there’d be less chunder on the floor. Just about everybody in that shed had a sway on. Some obviously had bottles of spirits stashed out in their cars. It was New Year’s Eve after all.

We mozied outside for a bit of fresh air. It was a scrum around the door. I turned side on to squeeze through. Then whammo, I’m brushing past my girl. She barely looked at me. Just turned her head slightly and talked to a girl beside her. Although she didn’t get out of the way either.

When we got back the room looked a little different. The mums in swirly flowery dresses and aprons were taking away the table. The lights dimmed and the music started.

I made my move. The clock was ticking; so to speak.

She was leaning up against the wall. By herself. I stood in front of her, supporting myself with my free arm on the wall above her head. Smiling, I leant in real close and put my mouth to her ear so she could hear me over the music. Her hair smelt of apple shampoo. My lips brushed her ear, ‘I’m Gary.’ Then I straightened myself and we just stared at each other for bit. Her eyes were brown, like mine.

Next thing she put her mouth to my ear. She said nothing, just gently blew hot air. Then all casual like she sucked my ear lobe. Played with it like a jellybean on her tongue. I pressed up against her. My eyes were shut tight.

Without a word she took my hand and led me passed the in-crowd outside into the night. Moths fluttered around two bare bulbs above the woolshed door lighting up the dusty car park. We stopped at a blue Ute. She still hadn’t spoken. She opened the door, grabbed a sleeping bag and a bottle of Kahlua off the floor. Then we walked down to the beach. My hands were sweating; I thrust them into the front pockets of my jeans.

Just before we stepped into the shadows a male voice called out, ‘Debbie, come ere…’

She started running. ‘Quick.’

‘I can see you Debbie.’

We held hands and ran, swerving left along the beach. We staggered up into the sand dunes and ducked for cover. We heard more shouts. Then he must have given up and gone back to the party.

‘I thought that guy you were dancing with was your brother?’

‘He’s not. Want a swig?’  Then she shook out the sleeping bag and sat down.

We were all alone except for a few stars and the Stones’ Brown Sugar distorted by the distance. I shivered on the cold sand.  

‘Get in,’ she said.

I took a glug of the creamy liqueur. It burned my throat.  Her breath was a mixture of milk and coffee. And sweet. She pressed her lips to mine. I hadn’t kissed a girl in so long I’d almost forgotten what to do. I tasted the faintest hint of strawberry lip gloss. I resisted the urge to mash my lips against hers. My tongue was like a curious lizard. Flat out.

After a while we lay down. I slipped my hand under her t-shirt. She didn’t have a bra on. I pulled up her top and took a swig of Kahlua. Then I did the thing I heard one of the guys at footy boasting about in the changing shed. She mewed like a kitten and held my hair in her fists. Next she pulled me back to her lips. We were locked like that for ages. I was the rider on the storm. I was slipping through a space of tongues and lips and skin and bone and words, always words cascading in my head. …The world on you depends, Our life will never end, Gotta love your man. Yeah.

That was until someone grabbed my shoulder. And screamed, ‘get off her arsehole. She’s mine.’

‘Leave me alone Pete, it’s over,’ she cried.

‘He’ll be over, if you don’t get him off you.’

‘We’re not going out any more. Why can’t you get that through your thick skull?’

‘How could you? Drop me? Tonight of all nights? For this goon?’

‘You don’t own me.’

Next thing the cockey tries to pull Debbie out of the sleeping bag. But we’re kind of wedged in. I’m holding Debbie around the waist. I felt totally useless. I was about to say, look mate give it a rest, she’s moved on. Or something helpful like that.

In the distance they were counting in the New Year. Then someone came up behind me and put the boot in. I felt my head jolt sideways. Then nothing.

I came round in the morning woken by the warmth of the sun. Alone. My head was pounding. The hair behind my ear was caked with blood and sand. My t-shirt was lying beside me tangled up with Debbie’s. The stupid bastard didn’t even let her get dressed. What a tosser. I got out of the sleeping bag, staggered over the sand dunes and back up the beach. Side stepping occasionally passed sleeping couples. When I made it to the car park I took a piss behind the Kingswood.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ I yelled pounding the car roof with my fist. The moon was a sliver of white light in the pale morning sky. The thick dew a mercury droplet tent over the car.

Bruce groaned. ‘What are ya?’

‘Let’s just drop one and dissolve man.’

‘What’s the hurry? They might put on some chops for brekkie. You missed the fireworks. They were grouse.’  

I opened the door.  ‘Move over dipshit. I’ll drive, you’re still coma’d.’

            ‘Where’s Miss Ocean Beach? Give you the heave ho for being a slack root?’

‘Piss off.’

Bruce didn’t notice my bloody ear. I started the beast and pushed in a cassette. Supertramp’s, Even in the Quietest Moments, came on. Bruce’s head knocked against the passenger window as I dropped a fat in the car park and spun onto the shingle.

‘Shit man. I wanted to go for a swim. A New Year’s day cleanse.’

We headed up the narrow cliff face road leaving the beach and the woolshed behind.

‘Come on then, spill,’ said Bruce.

A shiver went up my spine and I said nothing, just concentrated on keeping the beast steady through the twisty gravel. I took the cattle stop too fast and we both just about hit the roof.

‘Easy mate. The beast can fly when it wants to remember? Why are you so anxy anyway, I thought you copped off?’

‘Just drop it eh?’

‘Hey slow down we’re coming up to that gnarly corner,’ said Bruce.

I changed down and pumped the Kingswood’s spongy brakes. Thankfully no one was coming as I flew round the tight bend and lined up for the one way bridge. As we passed a flash of black and blue hit my eyes.

‘Pinch and a punch…’ said Bruce, thrusting out his right arm.

I elbowed him and slammed on the brakes.

‘Up ya nose with a rubber hose…,’ said Bruce.

I backed up, the motor whining as I swerved roughly onto the verge. I got out of the car and walked back along the road. The shingle digging into my feet. Then I looked over the bridge railing. My legs were jelly. Truth be told I was cacking it at that point. The creek bed was narrow with water flowing on one side. Six feet from the bridge was an upturned car. The roof was flattened and clumps of mud and green grass rested like flags behind the wheels.

‘Fuck a duck,’ said Bruce, ‘that baby didn’t make the corner.’

We both ran back along the road and scrambled over the fence, through some cutty grass into the water. The windows had popped out and the windscreens smashed. A regular backyard showpiece.

I just stood there in the water. The rear of the car had formed a dam with a submerged willow trunk. I edged around the side and bent down. Next thing all the hope and confusion of the night before flew out of my mouth in a scalding stream.

‘Holy shit man you’re giving me the creeps now,’ said Bruce, inching over to where I was standing.  I must have fainted at that point. Apparently I dropped to my knees and started bobbing about face down in the stirred up stream.

I came too with Bruce shaking my shoulders. ‘Mate you’ve cut yourself. Let’s get out of here.’

‘We’ve got to help them,’ I said.

‘It’s too late. Take a look for yourself.’

‘It’s her, isn’t it? I said.

‘I can’t be sure,’ said Bruce. ‘I only saw lots of…hair.’

I ran back to the car and got the crowbar.

‘Let’s call the cops eh? This is bigger than the both of us,’ said Bruce.

‘They might still be alive.’

I jammed the metal hook into the passenger door and wrenched it with all my might. The car moved but the door didn’t budge.

‘I thought she was with you?’ said Bruce accusingly. ‘How did she end up in shit creek?’

It wasn’t a time for dumb jokes. I’ll never forget that line.

‘Call the cops,’ I yelled, trying the door again.

‘What? On our bat phone?’

We heard the sound of an engine and a farmer popped over the culvert on his happy red tractor. He took one look at us and the car and said; get on.

He took us back to his house and sat us down in his dark kitchen. He cranked the handle on this old black phone on the wall and said; 111 please. His wife was cooking breakfast. Eggs fried in mutton fat, doorstep toast and heaps of hairy bacon. I sipped the tea she put in front of me. The mug was chipped.

The cop who turned up looked about as young as me and Bruce. He asked questions and scribbled untidy notes. By the time we went back to our car the fire brigade and the ambulance were parked up. I’d never seen a body bag before. I hoped it was my last.

It ended up it was just her in the car. She must have got away from that creep and taken off in his Ute. She would have been so upset she’d floored it. Losing control.

It was supposed to be a start of a new era.  Our decade of luv, Bruce said. What a crap start.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Debbie. My nightmares were dark and wet and tangled with the smell of river and apple shampoo.

We went to her funeral in the St Lukes Church in Havelock North. It was a big turnout. Me and Bruce stood at the back. I had a hipflask of Kahlua in my pocket. I skulled it when that jerk did his reading. I recognized his voice. And the trousers.

There was a big framed photograph of Debbie on the altar. She smiled out at us crying back at her. I closed my eyes during the prayers and remembered. That night. Her silent urgency. My face burned.

We snuck out before the coffin. I didn’t want to see the pallbearers.

Bruce was away shearing most of the summer. I kept working at the record store.  Though every song seemed to be about dying, not falling in love. I listened to them all. They became my new mantra.

And the rain never came.

Song Lyrics: Riders On The Storm, by Jim Morrison, 1971