Remixed Relics: Slippery tales of transformation

REMIXED RELICS

slippery tales of transformation

GREG SNOOK

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

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Hazelbrook NSW 2779

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Copyright 2015 © Greg Snook

All rights reserved

Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved.

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Disclaimer

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, his agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and takes no responsibility for any such coincidence.

I am indebted to my wife, Jean, for advice, support and proofreading and to my daughter, Erin, for her story, The Hunter, (and encouragement).

I would also like to thank Peter Kirkpatrick, Nea Cahill, Helen Barnes-Bulley, Rob Stephens and Tamara Stojanovic for information, suggestions and/or proofreading.

To Hunter, who had the best laugh and loved Homer and Mahler (among others).

Quickly, bring me a beaker of wine, so that I may wet my mind and say something clever.

Aristophanes

The Story of How the First Person Bumped into the Second Person Before Launching into the Third Person

I was wandering through Sydney’s Roselands one muggy November day in 2010, searching for hidden treasure, when I ran into someone I knew through work.

‘G’day Scheherazade,’ I said. ‘Beautiful day outside, isn’t it? Thank God for air-conditioning.’

She hovered, rather than stopping. ‘Hi, Grasshopper. What brings you here? Looking for more music?’

‘Maybe. Maybe I was looking for you.’

‘Why? Do you want to sing me another song?’

I put down my Persian rug and three shopping bags full of DVDs, CDs, vitamins, socks and sultanas and took out my glasses.

‘I sent you an email last week,’ I said, ‘about that migration stories project we funded. How’s it going?’

She relaxed her grip on her mobile. ‘The project’s going really well, though it’s taking a lot longer than expected. We keep finding more people with interesting stories to tell. Especially the refugees.’

‘We don’t exactly welcome them with open arms, do we? Going on a holiday’s hard enough these days, with all the scans, security and sniffer dogs they have at airports.’

‘My partner’s recording some of the Indian, African and Arabic musicians so we’ll end up with a book and a CD. It’ll be a fantastic tribute to Sydney’s cultural diversity.’

‘Great! I love Arabic music. I used to have a wonderful Fairouz LP. It got covered in cake and ants at a barbecue, but it was already very scratched. I’ve got no idea why vinyl’s so fashionable now?’

‘Vinyl’s groovy. You’d like Natacha Atlas.’

‘She’s cool. Hope I’m not holding you up.’

‘It’s nice to see you, Grasshopper, but I can’t chat for long. I’ve got things to do.’

‘Fair enough. I have my own migration story, you know. I recently found out that my great-grandfather – on my mother’s side – had to leave Westphalia after he punched an officer. He was a tailor from a wealthy German family. Don’t know what he was doing in the army. Apparently he hid in a trunk, which his mates smuggled onto a boat bound for Australia. They let him out when the ship was too far out to sea to turn back.’

‘That’s very interesting, but I’d better get moving. I’ll get in touch with you in a few weeks about the project.’

‘Before you go, Scheherazade, I do have something for you. It’s not exactly a song. It’s more of a song cycle – in prose.’

‘It might have to wait, Grasshopper, I’ve –’

‘Don’t tell me you’re a Dragons supporter!’ I exclaimed, noticing the St George Illawarra logo on her T-shirt.

She glared at me as if I’d accused her of breaching copyright. ‘What’s wrong with that? Do I have to go for the Bulldogs just because I’m a Muslim?’

‘No way! I’m a one-eyed St George supporter, myself.’

‘I’ve been going to Dragons games since I was eight. I grew up in the St George area, in Allawah.’

‘That’s amazing! I always thought Allawah was an Aboriginal name but Wikipedia seems to think it’s an Arabic word.’

‘Maybe it’s both.’

‘It’s a shame the Kogarah Mecca closed. I saw Ned Kelly there.’

Scheherazade laughed. ‘Was he wearing his heavy metal burqa?’

‘Yeah. I still can’t believe the Dragons are premiers. Not so long ago they were a team more scored against than scoring. When they win it’s like God’s in His heaven/All’s right with the world. When they lose I feel like an outcast who’s backed the wrong mob.’

‘You poor thing! I never lose sleep over league games, Grasshopper. The high and mighty always come tumbling down – eventually.’

‘True.’ I moved a bag that someone had almost tripped over. ‘I’m a Rockdale boy, though I live in Western Sydney now. I’ve still got a lot of stuff at Mum’s old house. The tenants thought I was a burglar when I called in to get a bookcase out of the shed.’

‘Didn’t you ring the bell?’

‘No-one heard it. They were having a party in the backyard – which was full of dead bodies. I had to climb over the side gate.’

Scheherazade opened her handbag and started looking for something that was obviously more important than anything I had to say.

I opened my CD bag. ‘I just bought a live album by Weddings, Parties, Anything,’ I said.

‘Speaking of weddings –’

‘– and a Fall compilation. Do you know The Fall?’

‘They’re an old punk band, aren’t they? Their songs all sound the same.’

‘Yes, but they’re all different. Even the song called Repetition. Mark E Smith’s a genius. I love his cryptic lyrics.’

‘Hold on a moment.’ She checked her watch. ‘Can you do me a favour and sing it now, Grasshopper, whatever it is?’

‘Okay, Scheherazade. Well – like my great-grandfather I’ve been an escapist who got himself into tight situations while searching for romance, identity and a place to call home. On more than a thousand nights I travelled in schooners that unfurled their amber sails like immense birds in the golden sky. Admittedly, I was a slave of the bottle – until someone rubbed me up the wrong way and it smashed. Alcohol, by the way, is definitely a word of Arabic descent. Fortunately, I’d stashed some gems of wisdom in the cave of my mind, where memories ripen, split and decay like the pomegranates on my tree. But, as Jethro Tull said, Life is a long song, and when you pass your half century you –’

‘Stop!’ yelled Scheherazade. ‘You keep hopping from one thing to another.’

‘I’ve always been like that, but since I moved to my palm-fringed, outer-suburban oasis I’ve been playing with dates and events and transforming stolen gems and rotten memories into stories.’

‘I haven’t got time for stories!’

‘All good stories are timeless. I want to pick you up like one of those giant birds and take you to an enchanted island – much like Australia in the pre-rock to postmodern era – where many mundane mysteries will be unveiled.’

‘Giants birds? You’re more like an ibis, sneaking up on me while I’m –’

‘You’re not the only one being stalked by ibises. They’re everywhere, these days, strutting around like footballers. Yet flocks in flight are beautiful. I’ve got a statue of ibis-headed Thoth at home. It’s funny how he became conflated with a Greek god to become an esoteric writer called Hermes Trismegistus who, incidentally, is mentioned in the brilliant novel, Tristram Shandy. Sterne’s another genius.’

‘Jesus, G! I’ve heard enough about fucking birds and books and genii. I’m getting married tomorrow and my sister’s waiting for me at the hairdressers. I really have to go.’

I shook her hand. ‘Congratulations! I hope it lasts. I went to an Afghan wedding last week. Unfortunately, I also attended a funeral. Though Mum’s now ‘resting’ at Woronora Cemetery – where most of my family and several characters from Sumner Locke Elliott novels are buried – I can’t help thinking there’s a backup copy of her somewhere in the universe.’

‘So now you’re trying to communicate with spirits!’

‘Why not? It’s easier than communicating with Optus when your internet’s down … Look, I know I keep going off on tangents, but if I don’t keep talking I’ll probably cry.’

‘And if you don’t stop talking about yourself I’ll probably strangle you!’

‘That’s not such a good idea, Scheherazade. You need me alive to process your grant acquittal. And I need someone to listen to me. I’ve been carrying these yarns around for so long they’re starting to feel like an albatross – or ibis – hanging around my neck.’

‘I can’t stay, Grasshopper. I’ve got too many other commitments.’

‘So have I, and my main commitment is to the characters in this book. They crave attention, and if they don’t get some exposure soon they’re as good as dead.’ I threw myself at Scheherazade’s feet. ‘I beg you, as a fellow story-lover, to allow me to breathe life into my characters!’ I stopped kissing Scheherazade’s thongs and stood up. ‘We can sit in that café over there. Though I’m totally wired I’ll buy you as many coffees as you like. Perhaps I’ll be called a butcher for carving up my existence, but these tales of caravans and kings, princesses and castles, monsters, gold, talking birds (and cats), lost children and stairways to hell will reveal how the hero with a thousand faces found true happiness.’

Scheherazade’s face had turned a whiter shade of pale. ‘I’m not feeling very well, Grasshopper, and my sister’s not the most patient woman.’

‘It’s your wedding, not her’s. If I don’t take this serendipitous opportunity to share my life and opinions with you it might be too late. Who knows when we’ll be visited by the destroyer of all earthly pleasures, the annihilator of women and men?’

‘No!’

‘You cannot choose but hear … I would firstly like to explain how my beginning was in the end. To do that, I have to go back many years, to a tumultuous turning point way before The Fall.’

Scheherazade started dialling someone on her mobile. I was already in the 1940s, describing the gloom and doom that led to the baby boom.

Statement of Origin

Long ago, before global warming, tooth whitening and Wests Tigers, when the World Wide Web was empty and formless, there was war in the heavens and on earth (and Midway, for the Pacific was anything but). A darkness moved over the land and mourning was everywhere. Bombs fell, soldiers fell, Singapore fell. The seas were awash with sailors dodging planes. Let there be light! said a man playing God, but the blinding light and searing heat turned cities to ash. The future went behind a mushroom cloud.

(Don’t go, Scheherazade! Two hundred sentences died so this paragraph could be born.)

In August 1945 another man who’d be replayed forever danced down George Street in Sydney. When the celebrations were over and the diggers came home they planted Hills Hoists to claim their quarter-acre blocks. On sunny days the tranquil, red brick suburbs could be Paradise regained. In the wake of the US servicemen, everyone and everything came to Australia: Bill Haley, Johnny Ray, the Queen, immigrants, drugs, television, even that indefinite article of loathing, the A Bomb (courtesy of the British). The population exploded and Boom Boom Baby was a big hit. It was a time of rapid social change and the genesis of new ideas and styles, though many artists, writers and performers chose an exodus from the ‘cultural desert’ Down Under.

Australians would soon be watching watch World War 2 repeats in dolorous black and white.

(No, I don’t have to get back to the office. I’m on a flex today and tomorrow’s Saturday. Permit me to digress a little.)

It’s interesting to think that the name Sydney (after the British Home Secretary, Thomas Townshend, Lord Sydney) can be traced back to John de Sydenie, whose ancestors emigrated from the Norman village Saint-Denis – from which their surname derived – and thus to the patron saint of Paris, Saint Denis (who, after martyrdom, carried his head around for a while). Denis in fact goes back to the Greco-Roman name Dionysius (meaning servant of Dionysus), the Thracian god of wine who –

(I am getting to the point – the point of no return, the singularity that expanded into me – though I must admit I’ve got ahead of myself. Let’s wind the clock back to 1952. Imagine a peaceful, stew-fragrant, Californian bungalow in Rockdale, far from the inner-city slums, harbourside rats and thallium poisoning.)

If, on this winter’s night, a traveller pressed his or her nose against a window pane they might observe my uncle André searching for a thick pair of socks while my grandmother, Dulcie Gardener, reminds her son that his friend Albert will be there any minute.

Though André had agreed to go ice-skating he was having second thoughts. It looked cold outside and he hated the noise and crowds at the Glaciarium. When he heard Albert’s footsteps approaching the front door he realised it was too late to back out. While Dulcie talked to Albert about the perils of ice and blades André changed his tie and combed his wavy hair.

‘Don’t slip on your Rrrrrs,’ said Dulcie, as the odd couple finally left.

Dressed in his second best suit, André couldn’t help noticing that Albert was still in his work clothes. His friend was so casual, so indifferent to what people thought, yet women – including André’s sister Eva – seemed to like him. As they drove up Bay Street André wondered if easygoing Albert was keen on Eva.

Dulcie went into the kitchen, turned on the wireless and fiddled with the knobs. Nothing took her fancy, so she sat down in the nook next to her husband, Harry, who was sketching.

Harry was in no mood for company.

‘Haven’t you got some ironing to do?’ he asked.

‘I’ve done it all, and this cold weather gives me the tomtits,’ she replied. ‘Eva should be home by now. It’s getting late. They should pay her something for all that extra work ... I wish André hadn’t gone skating tonight.’

‘Why? A bit of exercise won’t hurt him.’ Harry pushed his overworked sketch aside and started rolling a smoke. ‘He might even meet a good sort.’

But Dulcie couldn’t help worrying. Young men were always having accidents, getting mixed up with the wrong sort of people, or worse. She’d never forgotten the eager faces of the boys who’d gone off to fight for the ‘Mother Country’ (in yet another war against her husband’s ‘Fatherland’) and never returned. André (real name Adolf) had been spared that fate because of his German background. And though her French impressionist son was working as a window dresser while studying art part-time she still felt uneasy. She’d hate anyone to find out he’d been hobnobbing with bohemians instead of shooting his distant relations on some distant battlefield.

Despite her British working class origins Dulcie respected her husband’s heritage. So many clever people had German names – Einstein, Freud, Mendelssohn, Marx – and German settlers had made the Barossa Valley famous for its wines. In peacetime she loved telling people that Harry’s family had been aristocrats before his father Otto ended up in Eden, where he married another (possibly Jewish) expatriate and bought a farm.

Unlike his siblings, who’d stayed in the country or moved to semi-rural, English-sounding Windsor, Heinrich Hans Rudolf (Harry) Baumgartner had become a suburban landscape painter and producer of Atelier artists’ supplies. He’d always signed his paintings HB or, to avoid sounding like a pencil, Harry B. But in 1940, inspired by his son’s rejection of Adolf, he dropped the Baum and became Harry Gardener. Like André, he wore a beret when painting or exhibiting.

Eva, unashamedly blonde haired and blue eyed, barely knew a word of German. People were more likely to liken her to Grace Kelly than Marlene Dietrich. After leaving school at 14 she’d found a job in the mail order department of David Jones (DJ’s). She enjoyed handling all the beautiful merchandise she packed and posted to country towns. The only disadvantage was that she was often expected to work late.

Her innate shyness and modesty made her wary of the men at work. She was more relaxed at home, especially when Albert Adams, the tanned ex-airman from Sans Souci, delivered timber for Harry. As Eva watched him unloading his wood she decided they were made for each other. André liked Mr Adams too, and in time they became friends.

When Eva arrived home on that winter night and heard that Albert had taken André skating she was annoyed she’d missed him. Dulcie, sipping tea, reminded her that men liked doing things with each other – though she’d seen Mr Adams giving Eva the glad eye on more than one occasion. Eva blushed. To think she’d been so blind. After checking on the wounded cicada she was nursing back to health, she embroidered doilies until André limped in, wet and bruised. Once her brother had changed his clothes and lit a Lucky Strike she asked him about Albert. Groaning, André reported that Albert had enjoyed himself as usual – despite running into the rail and hurting his ribs. He’d also run into Eva’s cousin, Lilly, a known man-chaser from Camperdown, where the salt of the earth could be as rough as guts.

‘I bet she’s there every night!’ said Eva, with a touch of cattiness. ‘If that woman ever gets her claws into Albert he’ll wish he’d stayed in the air force.’

André assured her that Albert wasn’t interested in her cousin. ‘She’s no oil painting,’ he observed, ‘and a bit common.’

‘But she’s got tickets on herself. Did Albert ask how I was?’

‘Not exactly.’ André exhaled some cigarette smoke and watched it like a child watches bubbles. ‘He asked me if you’d ever been skating, though.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said you were more of a movie girl ... Albert’s always telling me what’s on at the Odeon. I think he goes there on his own.’

His words were music to Eva’s ears. It wasn’t good for a man to be alone. Though she knew little about Albert (his mother was Irish, he’d lost some hair in the war), she decided to forget about Lilly and think positively. If she waited patiently he might even ask her out.

She could hardly contain her excitement when Albert called in next evening to see how André was feeling. André complained of a soreness not even classical music could cure. By contrast, Albert’s ribs had stopped hurting and he was ‘fit as a fiddle’. He stayed for a game of euchre before deciding it was time to ‘hit the sack’. Eva escorted him to the door, talking about the latest movies, then coyly followed him onto the verandah. While she was picking up leaves and papers Albert grabbed the bull by the horns and asked her to the ‘flicks’ (to see a western).

Though Eva loved horses she wasn’t that fond of guns, saloons, deserts or cacti. She nevertheless said she’d be delighted to accompany him. Five days later Albert took her to the Rockdale Odeon. The support movie was short and sweet as the ice creams they ate, the feature interminable. Eva had trouble keeping her eyes open and Albert’s head kept drooping. Towards the end they both went down in a hail of bullets.

After that night Albert let Eva choose the movies. They stopped sleeping together and saw some enjoyable films (like Singin’ in the Rain) and some less so (The Ten Commandments). Eva came to realise that, despite his calloused hands, and dropped aitches, Albert wasn’t as rough and uncouth as some of the other men she’d encountered. He didn’t smoke, hardly drank, and only swore when his ‘Irish temper’ got the better of him (knowing ten words for bloody).

Though Albert rarely talked about his RAAF days (apart from saying he’d played water polo with Japanese POWs in an air force hospital) he was always watching the sky. Eva never asked him what he was looking for – his buddies or the lost years of his youth – and he never told her. He did tell her the names of the aircraft. From the Hercules to the Catalina flying boats, Albert knew them all. They drove to Mascot Airport one Sunday morning to watch the planes taking off and landing.

‘You’ll never get me in one of those!’ declared Eva, as if fearing deportation.

She’d never been happier, though, and as a jet soared overhead she mustered the courage to ask Albert if he’d ever gone out with Lilly. Albert said he’d taken her to a dance, once. She’d tried to lead him around the dance floor. After assuring Eva that her cousin meant nothing to him he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

***

One bright, springy Saturday in 1953 Albert invited Eva to a picnic in Centennial Park. At first she thought it was an organised gathering – like the David Jones staff picnics – but it soon became clear that Albert had come up with the idea himself.

The grass was green, the sky was blue, and Albert’s face was red from the ripening sun. Near the rose garden, the couple sat on a rug beneath some white, wrinkled clouds: Eva, in her best floral dress and the new pink cardigan she’d bought on lay-by, Albert in a polo neck-shirt and crumpled khaki shorts. Once they’d finished Eva’s home-made corned beef and pickle sandwiches Albert bought some fizzy drink from the kiosk and poured it into tin mugs. For dessert they shared a large Granny Smith apple.

They could have stayed there forever, serenaded by the strange minstrelsy of moorhens, but Eva wanted to see more of the park. While Albert disposed of the empty bottle she grabbed some crusts and the down-sized apple and walked over to the ponds. Taking a last bite of the apple, she threw some crusts to the ducks. Each duck had a double, swimming beneath it like a soul, forever separate and untouchable. The kaleidoscope of scudding life and colliding worlds made her giddy. She was still a little lightheaded when Albert suggested they go for a stroll.

After circling the lakes at a leisurely pace they stopped to rest on a lonely seat. The sunset was so glorious Eva forgot her promise to be home for tea. When Albert spotted a bright light in the heavens she became quite excited.

‘Is it a falling star?’ she asked.

‘I reckon it’s just a star – or maybe a plane.’

He stood up, screwed up his face, and then sat down again. ‘If it’s a plane I’m not sure what type. I’ll be able to tell you shortly, though.’

But the light didn’t come any closer. Since it was neither moving nor twinkling they decided it had to be a planet.

‘It might be Mars,’ said Eva, ‘or Venus. Venus can be an evening star or a morning star. Dad told me the morning star’s called Lucifer.’

‘I thought Lucifer was the Devil,’ returned Albert.

Eva felt a shiver go down her spine. ‘Dad said Lucifer was the light bringer, a guiding spirit who encouraged people to discover things for themselves. He must have heard that at the Masonic Lodge.’

‘Suppose so. It can’t be the morning star at this time of day, though.’

In the crepuscular silence that followed, Eva thought about Venus and love. She was getting goose bumps on her heart when Albert deflated them by saying: ‘Harry asked me to join the Masons but I’m buggered if I’m gonna wear a silly apron and go to meetings all the time.’

‘I’ve got a record of some German baritone singing about the evening star,’ he added. ‘I don’t know why everyone calls Venus a star when’s it’s a planet. Mars is red, though, isn’t it?’

Eva giggled, thinking of Albert’s burnt head. ‘I hope it’s not Mars. I don’t want any more wars.’

‘Too right. I had to drag a couple of dead bodies out of a Boomerang once, but most of the time it was pretty quiet where I was. I didn’t realise how tough it had been for some blokes until I read about the Burma railway and all the war crimes.’

‘They should make war a crime,’ said Eva. She wanted to hold and comfort him, but she had the apple core in her right hand. The words of an old song came back to her:

If you were the only girl in the world

And I was the only boy …

Albert, meanwhile, thought about O Star of Eve, and how he wasn’t that keen on baritones and preferred tenors like Caruso or the sweet-voiced Irishman, John McCormack. As grey clouds drifted past, the celestial bodies disappeared and it became chilly. Discretely dropping the apple core, Eva buttoned her cardigan. She looked at Albert and he looked at the sky. When a nesting bird started screeching Eva jumped up and nearly knocked Albert off the seat.

He grinned. ‘Guess we’d better call it a day. Your mother will ring the police if I don’t get you home soon.’

Eva checked the time. ‘Oh my goodness! It can’t be!’

After a few minutes walking Eva stopped next to a large fig tree and said: ‘I’d like to take a few cuttings from the garden. You go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.’

There were certain things it was forbidden for man to know.

‘I’ll meet you at the car,’ said Albert.

It took Eva forever to find a toilet and even longer to get back to the roses. Light rain fell as she snipped off a few roses and ferns with her secateurs. As she heads in the general direction of the Morris Minor the distant thunder’s making her anxious. Devoid of strollers and picnickers, the tenebrous park’s become a misty mystery. Now Eva’s slipping on the wet grass, slipping out of tense, slipping into a mythic space where anything can happen.

The rain’s come down and Eva’s run through the storm until the heel’s come off her shoe. She searches the grass, frantic, fig leaves sticking to everything, but the heel’s nowhere to be found. It’s hard to get her bearings and while she’s trying to find the path she hears a voice from somewhere in the middle of the downpour. It’s not Albert’s voice, but an ancient, inhuman voice that chills her to the bone.

‘Particularly nasty weather.’

Eva doesn’t reply. She’s tired and frightened and there’s no-one to reply to. As the surroundings continue dissolving she sees a snakelike creature slithering from a lake. It’s come so close she could touch it, though she’d never want to.

‘Does your father know you’re here?’ asks the strangely articulate intruder.

Knowing it would be rude not to answer, Eva replies: ‘I don’t think so. He’s probably in the shed finishing one of his paintings.’

‘That’s nice. Some people like to create. Others prefer to make an impact in a different way. There’s no need to look so frightened. I won’t bite you.’

Eva stops backing away and studies her interlocutor. ‘But snakes can’t talk.’

The creature seems to take offence. ‘I might be a bit slimy, but I’m no snake. It’s tough for us short-finned eels. Rejected by reptiles and despised by fish – possibly because we eat them – we’re caught between two cultures. But I’m a fair dinkum anguilla australis and I’ve got as much right to be in this park as those Indian mynah birds.’

‘Still, you’ve got no right to sneak up on me like that.’

‘I’m just doing what I do best,’ answers the crafty eel. ‘I pride myself on my communication skills – though pride’s a dirty word where I come from. Remember those chocolates you left in the glove box? If you don’t eat them soon they’ll melt.’

The thought of the special treat she’d brought along for a special moment made Eva’s mouth water. ‘How can they melt?’ she protested. ‘It’s too cold and wet.’

‘It’s pretty hot in the car.’

‘If only I could find it.’

Eva took a few awkward steps in what she hoped was the right direction, one shoe flatter than the other. She assumed the visitor would vanish in the fog but it followed her like a faithful hound.

‘Chocolate’s good for you,’ said her companion, after they’d gone a few hundred yards.

‘One or two might be okay, but apples are better. You know what they say: An apple a day keeps the doctor –’

‘Away, yes, but sometimes you need a doctor. Chocolate’s made from the beans of the cacao tree so it’s actually a vegetable. It also stimulates the mind.’

Eva was about to accuse the pseudo-serpent of being a know-all when it turned into a twisted branch. She stared at the lifeless stick for a few seconds before continuing on her way. The thought of creamy sweets made her even more desperate to find the car. Before too long she came to a road. And there was Albert, running towards her with an umbrella.

Though glad to be safe and snug inside the vehicle, Eva was embarrassed about all the mud and fig-leaves she’d brought with her. Shivering, she discarded her cardigan, kicked off her shoes and removed her laddered stockings.

‘I hate storms,’ she whimpered, throwing the picnic rug over herself.

‘Don’t worry. It’s only Hughie moving the furniture around.’

‘We’d better hurry, Albert. I saw a sign saying the gates close at sunset.’

Once they were moving, Eva opened the glove box. The box of chocolates was hidden underneath all the gloves. Though limp and warm, the chocolates were delightful. She was onto her third before Albert asked what she was eating.

‘Can I tempt you?’ she answered, holding out the open box.

He shook his head. ‘No thanks, Eva.’

‘Go on!’

‘Just one, then.’

Albert chewed the chocolate and even emitted an Mmmmm to indicate he was enjoying it. After helping himself to another one he drove on in contented silence while Eva used trial and error to work out which type she liked best.

The first gate they came to was closed. Albert sped off in search of another exit. They’d barely travelled a hundred yards when he hit the brakes and swerved to the left.

‘Struth! That blasted thing came from nowhere!’

‘What was it?’ asked Eva, almost choking on nuts and nougat.

‘I don’t know. A bloomin’ rat or possum – or maybe just a big lizard.’

After reversing a few yards Albert wound the window down and looked out. He couldn’t see any dead animals.

‘You need to be more careful,’ Eva croaked. ‘There’s something fishy about this park.’

He drove away, slower than before, and then stopped again.

Leaping out, Albert’s opened the boot and lifted out a jack and a spare tyre. Then he’s jacked the car up in an incredible hurry and changed the tyre, grunting, sweating almost swearing the whole time.

‘You look exhausted,’ said Eva, when Albert returned triumphant to the driver’s seat. ‘You’d better have a rest. Here, there’s only one chocolate left and it’s yours.’

‘Soft or hard?’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

He waved it away.

As Eva enjoyed the last chocolate she noticed that the scent of crushed roses had been transformed by the smell of male perspiration. And though Albert was stuffed, the sight of Eva in the passenger seat, wet and in disarray amid clothes, cuttings, chocolates wrappers and fig leaves, had a strange effect on him.

‘The front seat’s a mess,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you move to the back seat and relax?’

She must have known he’d feel lonely in the front but once they’d started kissing and cuddling she knew nothing except that his mouth tasted nutty and his energy had returned. Ambushed by inevitability, she swirled like a leaf on a pond while the thunder pealed and lightning turned the rain to a shower of gold.

‘We’d better get going,’ said Albert, when the tempest suddenly abated.

Returning to the passenger seat, Eva combed her hair and rearranged her memories. They drove past dark battalions of trees, posts and fences until they came to a larger gate guarded by a rain-coated ranger with a torch. The ranger told them in no uncertain terms to P-O-Q. Albert was about to do his block when Eva burst into tears.

‘Don’t be upset, love,’ said Albert, as the gate slammed behind them. ‘There’s nothing to cry about.’

But there was. She’d slipped and she’d fallen, and when she arrived home she could barely look her mother in the face. Though Dulcie disapproved of her lateness (calling it her ‘first disobedience’) she warmed up some chops, peas and mash, asking if they’d been caught in the storm and whether Albert had taken care on the wet roads.

Eva wanted to confess that neither of them had taken any care. She couldn’t find the words to describe her loss of innocence. She explained that they’d left the park at a perfectly respectable hour but had stopped for a while because of the bad weather.

‘You should have gone somewhere closer,’ said Dulcie, who never got in a car if she could avoid it. ‘You look like the wreck of the Hesperus. You’d better have an early night and stick to the movies from now on. What’s wrong with your foot? Where are your stockings?’

Unwilling to discuss her heel, her clothes or anything else, Eva ran a bath and sat there for an hour, trying to wash away her uncleanness. The feelings of guilt only grew stronger. Around 8.30 she took two disprins and went to bed. When she heard her father stomping around the house she imagined he was angry with her. (His argument was with a watercolour). As fears, thoughts and memories mingled with dreams she was transported to a strange DJ’s.

Rain was coming in through an open but inaccessible window, soaking everything in sight. Desperate to stay dry, she ran to the lifts and caught the first one that arrived. To her horror, the lift driver had beady green eyes and a uniform that glistened like scales.

‘Let us go then, you and I,’ he hissed. ‘To quote a love song. I love love songs, don’t you? Lots of evil deeds have been done in the name of love.’

Before Eva could speak, the lift plummeted through dreamspace. After a prolonged fall it jolted to a halt.

‘Ground floor,’ announced the driver, sliding the door open. ‘Maternity wear. Eternity – where? Welcome to the Baby Boom.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Eva. ‘I wish I’d never unwrapped those chocolates. I wish I’d never listened to you, you damned – whatever you are!’

‘Call me Sir Eel!’ said her adversary. He played with his lever to show he was in control. ‘What’s done is done and it’s not my job to justify the ways of God to men – or women, for that matter. I should warn you, though, the child you’ll bear will have more hide than Jessie the elephant and more wind than a barber’s cat.’

Eva felt her dream-insides sink. ‘But I don’t want a child, Sir Eel! I’ve got too many plants to look after. You sound just like my mother. And, as Dulcie would say: you’ve got more front than Anthony Hordern’s.’

The beady-eyed beguiler laughed. ‘Well, I have to admit I’m highly symbolic. Some people call me the wife’s best friend.’

‘You’re no friend of mine.’

‘Well it hardly matters because there are bigger things in store for you.’

‘In this store?’

‘No! I’m talking about your son. If I were you I’d conceal his birth, set him adrift in a basket, and let someone else have all the worry. They usually turn out better that way.’

This was the last straw for Eva, who couldn’t bear to think of hurting the child she didn’t want. ‘Stop saying all those silly things!’ she yelled. ‘All I have to do is close my eyes and you’ll go away.’

‘You can’t close your eyes when you’re already asleep! But don’t worry. Your son will have his father’s hard head and his mother’s ability to make the most of everything.’

‘But what will the neighbours think?’

‘They don’t. Just make sure you keep him away from –’

The shape shifter’s final words were drowned out by a Boeing 707. Eva woke, regretting the chocolates that had disturbed her sleep. Everything seemed like a dream – the gardens, the lakes, the mess and mix-up in Albert’s car – but if she put her mind to it, things would quickly fall back into place.

***

When, three months later, Eva broke the news to Albert he mumbled something about how you always had to expect the unexpected and stared at her lantana hedge as if it had suddenly become his responsibility. The moment Dulcie cottoned on to what was happening she advised Eva to get married as soon as possible. It was a quick registry office wedding, followed by tea and scones in a city cafeteria. Harry gave Albert a key to the shed. Nobody took any photographs of the happy couple.

Albert quickly made himself useful, repairing fences and building garden seats that could hold a squadron. The newlyweds pretended they’d been married forever but when loose dresses could no longer hide Eva’s transgression she resigned from DJs.

The boy was born a week before Empire Day. Harry and Dulcie were delighted to have a grandson. André was relieved there’d be less pressure on him to reproduce. (He’d recently married a waitress he’d met in a Rowe Street cafe and moved to Ramsgate). Eva wanted to call the baby Gee – Albert’s first word when he saw his son. Harry thought G Minor