Word of the month

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Each month, Evelyn's writers group adheres to a discipline of writing a short piece, based on a supplied word. Here is a selection of her pieces. (The word is not always included in the title). 

‘Over near the trees.’ The old man points towards the far side of the paddock.

‘But Dad, the van will cop all the leaf fall.’

‘No matter,’ the old man says as he tunes in to the siren song of the afternoon breeze rustling the leaves. The set of his chin discourages further discussion; he takes off.  Reaching the spot, he folds his arms. The son sighs, shrugs, climbs into the Ute, and tows the caravan to where his father stands.

‘No power here Dad.’

‘No need son.’

The son piles bricks from the Ute under the van and releases the towbar. ‘I'll be back in a few days.’

‘No need son.’

As the engine grumbles a dog jumps off the tray and scampers to the man’s side. ‘Ah my old mate, it’s me you choose after all, is it?’

The Ute bumps away across the paddock, already forgotten. They turn towards the van; it looks comfortable here. Clothed in its faded aluminium skin, it is a bit of an old timer like its owner. It belongs to a time before caravans had TV, microwave ovens and sides that exhaled far enough to accommodate a king size bed and a leather lounge suite. When camping grounds were remembered for the friendliness of folk, not by the size of someone’s rig. When your van could nestle cheek by jowl with others of its kind. Places where travellers drew up chairs around barbecues and chatted to strangers.

‘Where’re you from?’

‘Where’re you headed?’

‘You must see....’

‘Don’t go there.’

His wife had loved all that. The old man prefers free camping. This is the place he wants to be, near the river. He lights a gas lamp, he doesn’t pull the curtains, why bother? what if a hundred eyes might be watching from outside? The light spill from the windows is his way of saying. ‘Look in if you want to, I’ve nothing to hide.’

He leaves the door open too, he's had enough of feeling like a child shut in after dark. Fingers of cold drift in, he sets a small terracotta pot upside down on the stove and lights the gas. It takes only minutes for the pot to give off warmth. Reaching into a drawer he finds a much-darned jumper. ‘You don’t think I’d leave you there to go to the ragbag, do you?’ he mumbles to the jumper as he pulls it over his head. ‘She’d put me in the ragbag too if she could.’

He cooks his longed-for favourite meal, lamb chops and three veg. ‘No more of that stir-fried foreign muck for me,’ he says to the dog.

The meal is finished, the plate wiped clean with a piece of bread. The dog’s eyes don’t move from the bones, as if willing the old man to put them his way. He cleans up slowly, with care, just the way he likes to do things. Satisfaction warms his old heart, so long uncomfortable in his former home. He reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a battered tin dish and a packet of dog food.

‘You didn’t fool me, sitting up there on the Ute, you old rascal.’

The dog’s tail wags as the bones are added to the dish.

‘Come outside for a while before we turn in.’

Moonlight splashes the paddock’s stippled surface and silhouettes the trees around the perimeter against the star-strewn sky. One tree, shaped like a shepherd’s crook, stands near the van. It shows an attitude of watchful curiosity in the curve of its trunk, the spread of it branches like an open pair of arms give a silent welcome. He walks towards it, places the dog’s dish on the ground and settles down to make friends with the tree.

He settles back against the trunk. Still warm from the day, it feels like a favourite armchair. He pulls a much-seasoned harmonica from a pocket, blows a few notes, uncertain at first and not quite on the mark. He smiles to himself, his daughter-in-law hated him playing his harmonica. The old man cradles it in his hand then places it to his lips as lovingly as if it were his long dead bride. The leaves above turn to listen and in tune, whisper a sigh of approval.

The sun streams through the Cathedral’s towering stained-glass windows. A shaft of rubied brilliance from the rose window above the altar bathes the oak casket and white roses with an incandescent glow. The archbishop’s jewelled mitre and purple vestments lend a regal grandeur to the State Funeral. The deceased’s Victoria Cross, earned in Afghanistan, sits with his Order of Australia Medal on a velvet cushion.

With effort, the Widow holds her head straight. She can hear people whispering how brave she is. Her husband’s sudden death a tragedy. So many good years in front of them. She is grateful for the transition lenses that hide her eyes. Finally, after two hours of liturgy and eulogies, the archbishop intones the blessing.

At home, the Widow unwinds the chiffon scarf, her neck is still painful. In the mirror, she sees the bruises are fading. She laughs at being thought brave in the face of her famous spouse’s death. She sits on the king-size bed and looks forward to sleeping in restful solitude; she savours the quiet house. It feels more peaceful already.

The doorbell chimes; It’s Wife One and Wife Two. They all hug and gather in the sitting room to drink the deceased’s best Veuve Clicquot vintage champagne.

The Widow bows her head. ‘I wouldn’t have survived without your care. Thank you.’

‘We tried to tell you,’ says Wife One gently. 

‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand … then.’

Wife Two says, ‘his charisma papered over the cracks.’ 

‘Yes! It was like a drug; it drew me in and before I knew it …’

A silence born of understanding falls. 

Wife One holds the glass up to the light. The delicate colour with its gentle effervescence makes her think of the creators of this timeless wine. ‘Y’know, the Widow Clicquot took over her late husband’s business.’ 

‘And made it even more successful!’ Wife Two says twirling her glass.

‘I think there’s a message for me,’ the Widow sips her champagne. ‘However, until the Will is read, I don’t know if I’ll have a home, let alone access to the business.’ She refills their flutes and offers a tray of chicken sandwiches and caviar topped smoked salmon blinis. 

Dusk falls, the Widow lights the fire, the dancing flames warm them; they settle in for the evening. The doorbell chimes again. 

‘Who could that be?’ the Widow asks. 

‘Don’t know’ says Wife One, ‘we’re all here.’

The Widow opens the door. A tall woman with gorgeous auburn hair and iridescent green eyes smiles. ‘I’m the Mistress.’

The Widow is nonplussed. How had this escaped her? She thought he was past all that. Though, why would he? After all, each of them had been a Mistress at some stage.

‘Come in.’ She looks down the driveway as if expecting more arrivals. Why would he stop at one? She draws the Mistress into the sitting room; she is made welcome. Stories and truths are shared, some of them unknown to the women. There is no judgement or disbelief. Just a growing empathy of survivors who have weathered a storm.

 The Mistress looks around her; understanding infuses her beautiful eyes; she is pleased she came. These women had each in their own way, made him successful. Without them he would have been much less. 

‘He was a damaged soul. He refused to seek treatment for his PTSD.’ Wife One shakes her head.

‘There’s so many like him,’ says the Widow. ‘If I can get access to the business, maybe we can help some of them.’

Wife One and Wife Two, glance at each other. ‘We have a plan.’

The Widow looks up. ‘Another one? Tell me.’

Wife Two nods, ‘Yes, we’ll call it part B. Did plan A work?’ she pauses, unsure whether to continue. After all, the Mistress is an unknown quantity to them.

The Mistress understands the unspoken. She unbuttons her jacket, revealing her perfect ivory skinned shoulders. Well, they would’ve been perfect if not for two faded red welts. 

‘He’d never done this before. I was so shocked; I would’ve ended it but …’

The women sigh, they understand his modus operandi all too well. The Widow takes her hand. 

Wife Two continues. ‘You managed the syringe?’

‘Your training was perfect,’ replies the Widow. ‘I never meant to use it. I believed I could cope and just having the plan helped me. But … after the stroke …’ She remembers his rage and frustration.

Wife Two finishes the sentence. ‘It would’ve been unbearable.’ 

Wife One says. ‘I hope you got rid of it.’

All eyes turn to the Widow. 

She smiles. ‘Before the coffin was sealed, I tucked it into his top pocket.’

Wife One laughs. ‘So, it went up in smoke with him.’

‘Oh dear!’ The Mistress stifles a smile. 

The Widow raises her flute. ‘To peace for us and … for him.’

They all raise their glasses. ‘To peace.’

‘Tell me about plan B?’ asks the Widow. 

The doorbell chimes.

M. Partout dresses in a cream Tussore silk suit every day of the year. His apparent indifference to the weather is just one of his enigmatic characteristics.

His concession to the seasons is the shade of silk. Pale creamy white for summer, deeper fawn tones for cooler days. Waistcoats, shirts, and colourful bow ties with a matching silk handkerchief tumbling from his breast pocket, are all coordinated to perfection to complete this vision of sartorial splendour.

M. Partout is never seen without a hat. A triumph of the milliner's art, observers who appreciate these things can tell that his Panama hats are imported from South America. These hats are shaped according to each season’s needs with wider brims for the hot summer sun. Likewise, keen observers can tell his shoes are made by Bally Suisse in finest soft leather with cream and brown two-tone uppers. Buffed to just the right amount of sheen, but not shine.

Not a single person in the arondissemont of Montmartre knows where M. Partout lives, or how he affords these splendid clothes. He is not known to work either in the professions or trade. No one can claim him as kith or kin. He appears each day in his elderly Simca La Ronde automobile at 11.00am. After climbing the three hundred steps to the Sacré-Coeur Basilica and completing two circumnavigations of the periphery, he returns to La Maison Rose on the Rue de l’Abreuvoir. He sits at the same table each day. A waiter brings his standard order of Pernod and café noir which he drinks slowly as he reads Le Figarofrom cover to cover. Apart from a polite nod of thanks, he never engages the staff in conversation, or expects them to approach him to pass the time of day.

M. Partout’s face looks sad, the corners of his mouth turned down in an expression that could be read as extreme disappointment, but whether it is with his life, or the world in general, it is impossible to tell. His unprepossessing visage looks as if it had been made from nature’s offcuts; it is somewhat at odds with the carefully curated image the rest of his appearance presents.

One day a child skips along the cobbled street. New to the area, she doesn’t know about M. Partout's preference for privacy. She is carrying a sunflower, a beautiful golden, rich, and vibrant sunflower.

At the La Maison Rose she pauses and observes the lone figure of M. Partout at the table. She walks up to him and standing very close to his knee gazes solemnly and silently at him. Other patrons pause in their conversations and coffee drinking to watch this extraordinary development unfold. Guillaume, the owner of the nearby Bureau de Tabak kiosk, leans forward from his window to watch. Apart from his characteristic polite nod, M. Partout has never spoken to him either, despite the fact he purchases his newspaper from Guillaume every day.

He lowers his newspaper; their eyes meet. She is completely undaunted by his unapproachable demeanour. Not a word is said. The little girl places the sunflower on the newspaper. He picks it up and examines its glowing friendliness.

Other café patrons hold their breath and watch. Silence descends on the square. Even the birds in the trees pause their twittering as if they understand the moment is extraordinary. Then a miracle occurs, as an almost imperceptible convergence of movements suffuses M. Partout’s face into a smile.

Rosa pulls the hood over her ski helmet to block out the stinging sleet flinging itself at any exposed skin on her face. The frozen snow rattles against her goggles and explode into multi-faceted snowflakes. From the inside, she can see her personal art show as the beautiful shapes form and in a second, dissolve and run down the lens as teardrops. A fleeting moment of beauty and then, lost forever. Are these snowflakes a metaphor for love and trust? Love bursts into bloom has its time of beauty and then, like these snowflakes dissolve into tears. 

She must leave this magic show being played out in front of her eyes. Riding a T Bar ski lift alone is difficult at any time but especially in a storm. She has to watch her ski tips don’t hit a lump of ice, or a rut. Anything that could unseat her in a second and send her off the lift and sliding backwards down the icy track.  Another reminder that she rides alone these days. Rosa never had these concerns when his tall, strong body rode beside her. He would always take the windward side and she would nestle under his shoulder protected from the weather. His strength keeping their skis travelling straight.

These reminders assault her night and day. Wise people reassure her that this pain will lessen but what do they know? How can they explain her waking in the middle of the night and there he is; she can smell his cologne. She takes big deep breaths to suck in the very essence of him. She reaches out, her arms encircle air. It was a mischievous doppelganger having its fun at her expense. How do people know this feeling of seeing him in the distance. The explosion of hope in her heart and the sliding thud it makes when the head turns, and it is a stranger. It’s always him her eyes look for, in a crowded room or an empty door.

Skiing, apart from each other, had been their shared passion. Together they skied in such harmony it was like the music made by a violin and bow. Today, her first day of the ski season, is her first return alone to the place they found each other three years ago. She reflects there’s been lots of firsts for her to navigate by herself since that fateful day last April.

Rosa skis to the front of her favourite restaurant. She stamps out of her skis, hangs them in a rack and prepares for yet another first. She nods to the receptionist, hangs her outer wear in the drying room and makes her way upstairs to the bar. Although early, It’s quite crowded as other skiers had opted to get out of the weather for a warming Gluhwein before lunch.

The manager and his wife turn to greet her. ‘Ah Rosa, welcome back,’ says Gerhard. They both look quizzically around and behind Rosa, clearly looking for someone.

‘Congratulations,’ pipes in Sylvia. ‘We heard there was a wedding.’ Her cut crystal voice rises over the hubbub of conversation.

A hush descends on the bar, faces turn towards Rosa. In the silence, she can hear the tree sap in the wood popping and crackling in the open fire. In a moment of clarity she understands why people when faced with a life changing event, can choose to move far away from all that is familiar. They do it to avoid moments like this. The silence continues, it is probably only seconds, but it feels much longer. A response is expected.

‘Yes,’ replies Rosa. ‘He married someone else.’

My body heat is making my clothes stick to the taxi’s vinyl seat. I regret choosing a cream silk shirt and linen trousers for the meeting with the legendary Kerry Packer at his headquarters. 

Silk and linen clothes do very well in Melbourne but, to my chagrin, not in this humid Sydney weather. I wonder what clothing can survive here. I look out the car window marvelling at people walking about as if this dripping, breathless, enervating heat isn’t happening. Five minutes from my hotel room, I feel like crepe paper left out in the rain. My hairstyle and makeup are wilting in sympathy with my clothing. Perspiration sprouts from every follicle on my scalp.

My phone rings; I fish it out of my briefcase. It’s large and heavy, like carting around a brick They’ll have to make the things smaller I think, as I pull up the aerial and press the answer button. 

‘Evelyn.’ It’s my executive producer’s voice.

‘I’m nearly there Jill, five minutes.’

‘I’m not. My plane was turned back to Melbourne. I couldn’t ring you until we landed.’ A pause, a beat. ‘You’ll have to meet Kerry by yourself.’

Humidity and crumpled clothing concerns vanish. Air leaves my lungs as if I’ve taken a stomach punch. Completely winded, a sensation of ice water running down my spine replaces the heat instantly. It doesn’t bring relief.  I recognise the sensation as pure horror. My stomach curls at the edges and threatens to reject my lunch.

‘Meet Kerry Packer by myself?’ My voice sounds like a mouse squeak. ‘Noooo Jill, I can’t do that. I was only coming to the meeting with you because I’m here finishing an edit.’ 

‘You know enough about the project. You’ll be fine.’ 

‘But …’ I stop, I recognise that ‘steel claw in the velvet paw’ tone in Jill’s voice. The voice that ensures Jill gets the results she wants. 

‘My secretary has faxed the documents to the Film Australia office. A runner will meet you at 54 Park Street. I’ll call you later.’ The phone clicks.

The taxi stops at a red light. It’s outside a typical Sydney pub. Green tiles half way up the wall to allow regular hosing. Through the open car window, the smell of beer wafts towards me further assaulting my heaving stomach.  Men in singlets and Stubbies shorts, are gathered on the footpath drinking beer. More jugs lined up on the shelf against the wall. Clearly this the way to keep up fluid intake in this climate.

‘Pull over please.’

The driver pulls into the kerb under a no standing sign. I am beyond caring.

‘Please wait.’

I dash across the footpath. Immediate raucous laughter as I run the gauntlet of leering men.

‘Hey girlie. The silk department’s round the corner.’ More raucous laughter.

I understand they mean the Ladies Lounge. I ignore them and rush straight into the bar. ‘A brandy and water please.’ I ask before the barman can speak. I place a ten dollar note on the bar towel.

The barman wisely decides not to say anything and pours the tot of brandy with a water jug beside. I splash some water, drink it down and rush out. The cab takes off. My stomach apparently grateful for the brandy, settles just a little.

Inside the iconic Packer headquarters, the air conditioning provides a little relief. The receptionist hands me a manila envelope. I retreat to a sofa to scan the contents. Yes, it all seems in order. Story synopses, director’s notes, casting, budgets, timelines. I start to believe I might manage this if Mr Packer doesn’t throw me any questions out of left field.

Upstairs, I wait in the reception area to Mr. Packer’s office suite. I look around and try to draw some courage from the unseen presence of women such as Nene King, Ita Buttrose, Helen Dally, Lisa Wilkinson, and other legendary women who must have sat right here before an encounter with the boss. How did they feel the first time?

‘Mr. Packer will see you now.’  The PA gives me a soft smile. How many times has she seen this scene playing out before her?

I feel those other women gently drape a gossamer fine cloak of support across my shoulders. I enter the inner office; the door closes behind me.

As I step forward, I say with prefect aplomb. ’Good afternoon Mr. Packer.’

The shape in the distance instantly turns your legs to liquid terror. A shape that makes your heart beat so hard it might break a hole in your ribs. Waves of fear wash over you with the force of a storm sea flinging itself upon the shore. Panic makes instant flight a necessity, but the terror rivets you to the spot as if an invisible carpenter has secured your feet to the ground with steel clamps. Will you ever learn not to feel this way?

The voice commands. ‘Stand still, don’t run.’ It is the voice of absolute authority. You dare not disobey even if your shaking legs could take off to shin up the nearest tree. You yearn for the hand next to you to reach out and clasp your small palm. A large warm hand you can curl your fingers round tightly; grown up arms to lift you to safety. No, you must stand your ground unaided. Not show fear, head up, eyes open without any trace of tears. Don’t let a scream, or even a whimper escape. Nausea rises to your throat as you watch it come towards you. Surely it couldn’t happen again. If you make yourself small and still, it might just pass by on its busy journey. 

Time after time your child world is torn apart by these encounters. The familiar terror is mixed with swirling memories of pain and fear; teeth gripping, ripping at your face, arms and legs. You’re on the ground; the dark shape is on top of you. You cannot scramble to your feet, cannot run and cannot roll away to try to protect yourself. You scream and scream. Your sister’s screams, match your own. You see legs milling about. A sharp noise, the shape falls away from you. Arms lift you from the pavement. Darkness swirls, pain burns and tears. Then, the memory of lying on the big kitchen table waiting for the doctor. The chloroform mask over your face drips you into oblivion. This was the day you gave birth to a fear that will blight your waking and dreaming for years. Scars on your face and arms a constant reminder.

She came into your life.  Small and warm, she was a gift that gave you the chance to unlearn that fear. How could you not love her? She trusted you and depended on you for all the necessities of her little life. She grew, you realised she had fears of her own. You played, walked, ate, and slept together. You loved each other so much you lost your fear of her kind, there was simply no room for it now in your world.

How your heart shredded to leave her when you travelled overseas. Would she understand your absence? As she grew older, you learned a new fear of losing her each time she had an operation. Your life suspended until she would wake and slowly find her feet. 

Years pass; here you are in this quiet room, her head and shoulders are cradled in your arms. Her lake deep eyes gaze at you, unblinking, trusting, never moving from your face.

‘Yes’ you say in whispered response to a quiet question.

Just one word then, a pause, and the light in her eyes is gone completely. Unconditional love has left your life. Her huge silken paw is still clasped in your hand. You stroke the cream velvet fur under her chin she so loved you to scratch. Not only did she give you many years of boundless love, but she had also dislodged that lifelong fear with that first lick of her raspy tongue.

Years later, a child is trapped by a dog maddened with fear. You are able to calm the dog so the child can be moved to safety. An unexpected encounter brings you a full circle. 

The young woman looks at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair is dishevelled; a face she hardly recognises looks back at her. Parchment white with mascara smudges and smeared lipstick give her a clown-like appearance. It’s the expression that shakes her most, naked shock. How had it come to this? A new employee in the Chambers, she had been excited and grateful to have secured articles in this prestigious firm. 

Her dream is to take silk and, eventually with enough hard work and luck, to become a Senior Council. There are two female SC’s in this firm, role models for her. But this! Is this what she has studied and worked for? She runs the cold tap and gently tries to clean her face. Raising her right arm is painful. He had twisted it during the encounter.

The door opens behind her, she’s horrified to see it is one of the SC’s. Before she can scurry into a toilet cubicle, the older woman looks at her and says.

‘Head of Chambers?’

Mortified she can only nod. ‘How do you know?’

‘Oh Kate, you are Kate, aren’t you? I was young and new here once. Just like you.’

Kate asks, ‘you too? Are there others?’

The SC pulls off her wig and shrugs out of her gown. She shakes her head and sighs.

‘I am ashamed to say, yes, there are…’ she pauses and looks at Kate. ‘He’s notorious.’ 

These words astound Kate. ‘But you’re an SC. How can he get away with it?’

The SC doesn’t answer, she reaches into her locker and pulls out a bottle of brandy and a crystal tumbler. She pours some, adds water and hands it to Kate. ‘Here, this will steady you a little.’

‘Thank you, Miss…’ 

‘Call me Elizabeth,’ she smiles a sad smile. 

Elizabeth draws Kate to the seat and taking a brush from her briefcase, gently tidies Kate’s hair. The two women are silent, both lost in their own thoughts. 

‘But why did you put up with it?’ Kate searches Elizabeth’s face. The pain and anger she sees appals her.

‘Fear.’ 

This answer stuns Kate. If this woman who has achieved everything Kate hopes to emulate, has won her position by accepting this abuse, what hope is there for her and all the other women who are subjected to this reign of terror?

‘Kate, do you have Netflix?’

‘Yes, why?’ Kate is completely thrown by this question. 

‘I’d like you to watch a film called Bombshell. It’s a true story about an American TV executive who got away with the same kind of behaviour as our Head of Chambers for years. He was finally stopped by the actions of a few brave women.’ Elizabeth stands up and taking Kate’s hands, draws her up. She looks into Kate’s eyes and says. ‘It’s time for us to become brave women too.’ 

Kate wonders what would she have done if Elizabeth hadn’t found her? Taken the same pathway of non-resistance to keep her job and her dreams alive? Or would she have risked it all by speaking up. At this minute she can’t say.

She asks, ‘and the others?’

‘Oh yes, we’ll do this together.’ Elizabeth replies.

I open the parcel, unwrap the swathe of tissue, and gaze at the antique moonstone brooch in my hand. Two smooth cabochon stones form the body of a spider, the head and legs are old rose gold. It perches on a gold bar pin. I have loved this brooch since I was a child.  It was my grandmother’s and now my own. 

Moonstones are magical to me, I have read they represent inner clarity, cyclical change, and a connection to the feminine. They are a symbol of light and hope and encourage us to embrace new beginnings. I hold the brooch to the light and see its pearlescent opacity but also a milky iridescence. I sit on the couch, pull a rug over me and gaze into its heart, grateful to have this quiet time to sit with my memories of my beloved Gran. My eyes close, the room slips away from me, the background music fades.

I am in another time and place; I am a servant – dressed in a hemp shift and an enveloping apron, my hair tucked into a mobcap. Wooden clogs on my feet and, without any warm stockings, the cold of the flagstone floor numbs my toes and seeps up my legs. 

Madame, my mistress is in a bad mood. I should be used to this but anxiety crawls around my stomach. I stand tall, shoulders back, hoping she won’t see how I feel because that provokes her to further abuse. Madame’s cold fury lashes me, it pierces my heart; I am confused, why don’t I escape from here? My feet won’t move, I feel imprisoned. As always, I don’t know the reason for today’s outburst, but I understand from long experience that I must not protest, keep my expression blank and never look at Madame directly. To do so will bring a beating with whatever falls under her hand.

How did my life come to this? I remember a happy home, a loving family. Dappled sunlight through trees, laughter and running free through the soft pine needles on the forest floor.  The memory fades. She pushes me to the door, I stumble and barely keep my feet as she grasps my neckerchief and, pulling it tight with one hand, she drags me outside into the snow. I try to wriggle free, but she holds me with a vice-like grip. The cold is so intense, it steals my breath and tears spring to my eyes. As I writhe, my heartbeat thumping, she pulls the sash from her kirtle and binds me tightly to a tree. I cannot move and my neck is twisted to one side, the rough bark bites into my cheek. I am alone, hours pass. The pain of the cold is unremitting, I pray for release. And finally, death hears my prayers and envelops me in her dark cloak.

I swim to the surface of awareness; the phone is ringing.  It is morning; somehow, I have slept here through the night. I try to shake off the feeling of a drugged hangover.  I feel too disoriented to speak to anyone, the phone rings out. The dream is still present; the feeling of dread still has its wraithlike fingers squeezing at my heart. 

Outside the magpies, my favourite sound in nature, are carolling. The rain has passed leaving a fresh-washed earth and diamond droplets glisten on the leaves. The moonstone brooch is still in my hand. I must’ve clutched it so tightly whilst I dreamt, the tiny gold spider legs have bitten into my hand leaving red marks.

I turn on the coffee machine, retrieve the Saturday Age and settle down with my breakfast to enjoy Jane Sullivan’s ‘Turning Pages.’ I can’t concentrate; why won’t the dream leave me? I never remember dreams and feel uncomfortable, it has brought to my mind unwelcome images of the  many times my lifelong best friend has metaphorically cast me out into the cold. 

I think about Madame in my dream. Her sense of entitlement that enabled her to put her maid out to perish in the cold. I see a parallel between Madame and my friend. More memories push into my mind. Long suppressed, they clamour to be heard...and felt. For some reason, today they cannot be ignored.  Of course, I’ve always known about these traits, but I have always accepted her. After all, we grew up together, like sisters. We accept these things from siblings. Don’t we?

I do know that like Madame, my friend came to this life with her sense of entitlement fully present. She has always expected that things would be put in place for her. She has no patience for detail. I should do details for her. Other people will provide her with everything she deems to be her due. She is non-negotiable on her boundaries, rights, and her expectations. 

Conversely I, or people like me, have no reciprocal rights to boundaries or consideration.
She never, ever sees any necessity to clean up any upsets she causes. If I have ever been brave enough to remonstrate with her, her favourite phrase: ‘oh just get over it’ is her justification. 

The phone rings again, I press the hands-free button and before I can speak, without any greeting ... her voice says.

‘Why didn’t you answer when I rang? You haven’t called me this week. And don’t eat whilst you’re talking to me.’

I can hear the cold suppressed rage. ‘Ah, Dear One,’ I reply hastily swallowing my mouthful of toast. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful morning?’

‘What’s good about it? You haven’t answered me.’

Madame’s image floats in front of me.  I shiver. What was opaque becomes transparent. In my mind the darkness revolves to light just like the Fresnel in a lighthouse. I look at the brooch sitting on the table in front of me; was Gran sending me a message to help me recognise what I have always known but not wanted to see?

I take a bite from the crunchiest part of my toast, chew for a few seconds then, as the voice, angry now starts, I cut across her.

‘Madame...Dear One...Good bye. I’m not here for you to bully anymore.’ I gaze at the phone screen and, for the last time, end a call with her.

I sit for a few minutes and think about the possibility of Karmic connections in our lives. I understand they are thought of as connections that we need in our lives in order to grow. These relationships test us and our understanding of love and relationships.

If this is true, I hope that this time, I have completed that cycle.

‘Thank you Gran.’ I smile.