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
