Yellow Pearl Read online

  “Yes.” Kay smiled. “Been to the pictures lately?”

  She shook her head. “Not for years.”

  “Any plans for the weekend, Miss Murphy?”

  “Mass on Sunday. It’s the highlight of my week.”

  Kay’s heart sank. It was true Miss Murphy led a dreary life. “I’m going to the beach with Dan if it’s fine.”

  She nodded. “Known him long?”

  “He’s a neighbour. I’ve known him since I was twelve.”

  A wistful shadow passed over Miss Murphy’s face. “Make the most of being young, Kay. It doesn’t last forever.”

  His face serious, Mr Osborne tapped Kay on the shoulder. “I’m taking you to the Metropole for lunch.”

  “Why?”

  “I have news.”

  She studied his face. “You’ve been transferred.”

  “We’ll talk at lunch.”

  Tears misted her eyes as typewriters clattered, telephones shrilled and voices jabbered. If Mr Osborne was leaving, she’d go too. She’d had enough of the mindless work, the mean-spirited people and her place at the bottom of a ladder she could never hope to climb.

  She strolled with her boss across the foyer and into the grand dining room of the Hotel Metropole.

  “Like chicken-in-a-basket?”

  “Yes please.”

  Businessmen seated around them argued about sales targets while waiters carrying aromatic food glided between tables.

  “I’ve been promoted to branch manager. I’m moving to Brisbane.”

  Her chin quivered. “You deserve the promotion. But I’ll miss you.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “What else?”

  “Butch wants you to work for him.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the best secretary.”

  She shook her head. “I’m resigning.”

  “Let’s talk about your future.” He paused as the waiter placed their meals in front of them. “If you could do anything you liked, what would it be?”

  “I’d draw. Paint. Mix with artistic people.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “Money.”

  “You could study during the day. Waitress at night.”

  She beamed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because you’re sixteen.”

  “How do I apply for Art School?”

  “Get a portfolio of your work together. Have an interview.”

  “Did you make enquiries?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re the best boss in the world.” She patted his hand. “And if you were interested in girls, I’d kiss you.”

  He blushed. “Oh … uh … kiss me anyway! I want to make those businessmen jealous.”

  Kerry Lown Whalen lives with her husband on Queensland’s Gold Coast. Her life changed in February with the birth of her first grandchild. She now finds it impossible to choose between spending time with Madeleine and writing stories. When she sits at her computer she writes in a range of genres, basing her characters on people she’s met and situations she’s encountered. Occasionally, she tells her stories by splashing paint on canvas.

  Historical note: A Secretary's Lot describes a time in Kerry's life when she felt powerless. Seared in her memory are the unfair practices of the workplace from 1960 to 1962. Determined to escape these strictures, she matriculated at night school and attended university. She taught English for twenty-two years at the Barrier Reef Institute of TAFE in Townsville. For the first time in her working life she felt fulfilled.

  Doug

  — Peter Donaldson

  My name is John Bean. I once wrote for The Bulletin, the very newspaper this piece will appear in, but that was long ago. I haven’t written since then, and I don’t think I’ll write again after this. I edited The Bulletin for a brief period. I didn’t last very long because the locals thought I ‘went too far’ a bit too often. They’ll probably say the same about this, but I don’t care anymore, I’m too old. I’ve been told I have 1800 words to say what happened. That’s a tall order for a short piece, but I’ll have a piece of them if they cut any of it out. And I’ll have a piece of you if I hear any ill talk of Doug. I consider that I can speak freely on the matter, because I know him best, and I alone know what actually happened.

  But this isn’t about me or you, it’s about yesterday, about Doug. To some people Douglas or Douggy. To me, Doug. To him I’m ‘Beanstalk’, even though I’m not that tall. But that’s recently, and I’d like to go back to the start. Doug was a couple of years older than me in school, and when all of them got drafted, I was too young. They went off and what happened, happened. I left school early and took a cadetship with The Bulletin. It was hard to get good information on what was happening to those that were away — most of what we found out, we found out later. Doug served in the 2/19th battalion, a unit that saw brief action and long imprisonment. They lost 738 all said — more than any other Australian unit; but Doug survived, through the Battle of Muar, through Changi and through Hellfire Pass. When they came back, it wasn’t only their emaciation that set them apart. It was something else. A greyness in the eyes, a limpness of aspect. But also something else. Something secret, unspoken, shared only between them, in brief glances. We could only guess. There was suddenly a divide in our little town; between those that went and those that didn’t. I resented not going during the war, but I resented it even more afterwards. I didn’t envy what they went through necessarily, but I envied those knowing glances, that subtle feeling between them of having seen something no-one else will, of having been there, seen it, and survived. Now they knew, but an implicit agreement shielded the rest of us from it.

  They all handled it differently when they returned. The worst were those who came back to disappointment. A sweetheart who’d taken up with another, a farm sold in one’s absence. Some of them took to the drink or other abuse. Old Reg Donnolly literally never spoke again. The rest of us looked the other way. They mostly helped each other. I can still see them holed up in their corner of The Royal of a Friday night, in amongst the smoke and dark stained wood, Doug and the others laughing and trading yarns, Old Reg watching with a glint in his eye. But sometimes, when no-one was looking, you could see them leaning in, grave-faced while someone whispered a real story.

  Doug did better than most. Armed with his tragic sense of humour he just got on with it, with building something. He got married, had kids, had a few good years on the farm and set himself up pretty well. He marched every year, but mainly so he could catch up and have a scotch with his mates. He never wore his medals. I didn’t know him personally very well during these middle years — more accurately I could say I knew of him. He was legendary for his humour, his humble nature, his integrity. He was one of those blokes that just had something about him; the less he spoke of himself, the more others spoke of him, perhaps trying to fill in the gaps, or give him the status they thought his modesty denied him. He probably knew what he was doing. Anyway time marched on, and one day his kids had all flown the coop. Another day he sold the farm and retired into town. Then Daisy died. By the time he wound up here at Shady Acres with me, he’d gained a few pounds and a new pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He’d lost height, mobility, and most of his will to live.

  But he hadn’t lost his humour, and he quickly established himself as a firm favourite with the nurses. He always had chocolates on hand to give them, along with a cheeky comment and a grin, when they came to help him change or give him lunch. “Come and sit on my lap, young lassie,” he’d say, “and we’ll just chat about the first thing that pops up.” He had them wrapped around his little finger, and probably me too. I’ve been lucky enough to have him as a neighbour these last five years. There is a bathroom we share, between our rooms. Whenever I needed to go, I’d always knock, just to be sure. Doug would always yell out, “Yeeeeesss … ,” whether he was on the toilet or not, so sometimes I’d walk in only to see him pissin
g and laughing his head off. We whiled away many hours in his room playing cards amidst his collaged walls of family photos, entertaining his constant stream of visitors. When I say ‘we’, I mean ‘he’ entertained. He was an entertainer. He generally had a few set stories and jokes for the day and ran them past anyone who came near him. I didn’t mind hearing them repeated, I loved watching people listen to him, to watch them glow in the light of his humour, his humility, his humanity. People felt attended when they spoke to him. Loved, in a way.

  When Doug got his mobility-aid, we got mobile, and proceeded to rapidly spread as much mischief through Shady Acres as possible. Doug started going to the woodwork room more often and making people all sorts of silly things. He made me a beanstalk, “So you can climb back down and get your head out of the clouds,” as he put it. Admittedly, he had been getting steadily more erratic this last year. They say it’s dementia, blood-pressure, cancer, morphine etc., but it appeared to me there was method to it. He never had trouble recognising me, or other people he really wanted to talk to. A few weeks ago, he put himself in Edith’s bed while she was at dinner. When she came back, she was beside herself and screamed so loud the nurses came running. They softly berated Doug, who looked confused, but as he shuffled past me into his room I could just make out a little curl in the corner of his mouth. He looked up at me and said, “I’ll just be happy when it’s all over with, mate.”

  Which brings me to yesterday, a beautiful, still, sunny summer day. After my shower, I strolled into Doug’s room. “Game of crib?” I enquired. It took him a while to answer, in fact he didn’t really answer. He just shot me a distant look, grabbed his woodwork bag, and started heading out the door. Over his shoulder, he mumbled, “Be at woodwork. Got a few things to build.”

  Sometimes you see too much about a person in a glance, in a fleeting moment, more than you otherwise would in a lifetime. There was something about that look that I couldn’t quite place. I went back to my room and sat down to think. I could hear the rhythmic hum and thump of a fly at the window. He’d never given me that look before, but it was still strangely familiar … I must have drifted off because I woke suddenly and knew where I had seen that look before. Those grey, distant eyes; it was exactly like that look, that knowing look those blokes only gave each other after they came back. I jumped out of my chair and raced down to the woodwork room quick-smart — as quick as my aged legs could go. “Where’s Doug?” I demanded. “AWOL again,” said the instructor with a wry smile, “but probably over at the shed.” There is an old shearing shed in the far corner of Shady Acres, and I headed over there through the dry heat and orange dust. I heaved the big steel door sideways with a loud screech that echoed throughout the shed as I entered. Empty. Nothing but old stained floorboards and that heavy wet wool oil smell and silence. I heard some shuffling underfoot. I crossed the shed and went outside down the steps on the other side.

  I leaned down, poking my head through the rusty bars under the shed, searching for any movement. “Is that you, Beanstalk?” I heard him say. For some reason, I said nothing, just tried to get some focus in the dark underneath. Eventually my eyes adapted, and I saw a long wooden box lying on the old sheep manure. Doug’s face peered briefly over the top edge of it then disappeared out of sight again. He was wearing a suit with medals on his chest. “Beanstalk. Tell them I know what I’m doing. Tell them this is how I wanted it.” I was still trying to make sense of this when the shot rang out, then it was silent again. I dropped to my knees, and I bit one of the rusty bars I was holding. It tasted good. Tasted like it should. I was still like that when everyone came running, and ruined the silence.

  Doug gave his last public speech at Anzac Day earlier this year. I was feeling a bit ordinary that day, and he said, “Don’t bother coming mate, it won’t be anything special.” I’m kicking myself now that I let him con me out of it. It would have been special. He never talked himself up, never tried to force an image of himself on anyone. But he left control of his last image to me, and I won’t stand to see it tampered with. For him to entrust me with that, to share the end with me, is the proudest moment of my life. I know what people say about these kind of things, ‘easy way out’ and all of that. That’s bullshit. Doug wasn’t perfect. But he was a proud man, a great man, in full possession of his faculties, making his last wilful decision. It took strength, not weakness. Anyone who wants to say otherwise about my friend can come up to Shady Acres and deal with me. And when my turn comes, I don’t want anything printed about me. Just re-print this.

  Born in Temora and previously a plant-grower, Peter Donaldson is currently studying at Monash University, focusing on creative writing, philosophy and psychology. He divides his time between Melbourne and Dimboola (in western Victoria).

  Historical note: The story ‘Doug’ is loosely based on the character of my grandfather, Herbert James Donaldson. I have very fond memories of spending time with him and his veteran mates, particularly around Anzac Day. As a child, I remember feeling a certain reverence for the quality of relationship they had, a relationship of deep mutual respect often veiled behind hearty banter. As I grew up I began to ask more questions. What was the fabric of their bond? What effect did their absence and return have on small communities? What was it like for those who nearly went?

  When Bert died a few years back, it felt like the end of an age of innocence for me. At his funeral, as is often the case, it seemed that he as a person, in all his complexity, was somehow missing. ‘Doug’ is in part an initial attempt to redress that, to capture some of his more human and humanist elements. Bert was in the 2/19th, was a POW, and was at Hellfire Pass. He was not at the Battle of Muar and the conclusion of his story bears no resemblance to ‘Doug’.

  Restoration

  — Chris Curtis

  We sat on stools at the Hero of Waterloo. Steve had just brought a couple of schooners to wash down our lunch when it came up. We talked about old times and he asked what I was doing these days. I returned the ritual. We had worked together once so I was not surprised when he told me about the old church he was working on. Without thinking, I asked if it had any ghosts. No, just a lot of pigeons and a few rats he said in his slow laconic way. He must have noticed how I stopped listening and looked into my glass. A memory had been triggered. Like a dam bursting, it poured into my mind. I shivered. It was a few seconds before I heard him say. “Are you okay?” so I pulled myself together and told him the story.

  I had been doing some work in Parramatta when it happened. I haven’t thought about it for years but it was very strange. Someone must have given my name to Mr Reynolds the verger of St. Matthew’s. He wanted me to do some work on the old rectory. St. Matthew’s is an old convict-built church in Windsor. All brick, except for the foundations, slate roof, bell tower, that sort of thing. The rectory is the same but more like an old house. It is next door to the church and overhung with old camphor laurels. It was pretty run down then and had not been occupied for years.

  I waited while Steve went to the bar for another couple of beers, and then continued. Mr Reynolds had asked me to patch up some of the plasterwork around the windows and skirting, I explained. Naturally, I was honoured to do even this minor task on such a famous old building. Since it was just a small job, I decided to fit it in after my usual work and agreed to meet him at the church the following day. That night I slept badly for some reason and I felt a bit hung-over when I arrived at the church.

  I parked my car in Greenway Crescent and walked across the cemetery, skirting the overhanging trees. As I approached the church, I imagined it covered in crude scaffolding, convicts working in the open sun, an overseer lounging under the trees. I have always been interested in old graveyards. The stories of people who had gone before, the sense of time, our own lives only adding to a longer thread. On every grave, dates and times, a person’s life reduced and preserved in a few words. A last clutch at immortality …

  Perhaps I deviated from the path, but suddenly I stumbled a
nd fell to my knees in the long grass. I clutched at a low tombstone to right myself. It was cold and rough to my touch and I looked a little closer. It was a simple slab of Hawkesbury sandstone. Cracked and speckled with lichen in its shady place, it stood a little apart from the others with rank grass between, its inscription eroded almost to illegibility. On my knees for a moment, I looked closer and read the faint message, “Here lies Michael Ryan, born 1810, died in punishment 1838, R.I.P.” As I pushed myself up, I paused to consider this poor young man. What awful crime had provoked his final punishment? He may have earned his memorial but he died far from his family and friends. Perhaps it was imagination, but I felt that my touch on the stone had formed a bond with Mr Ryan. I shivered briefly and tried to find a more pleasant mood. It felt as though Michael Ryan was still with me as I stumbled on towards the church. The feeling did not leave me until I reached the path. I was reassured by the better footing but the incident left me feeling strangely unsettled. I tried to put it out of my mind.

  Mr Reynolds was easy to find, he was polishing some sort of plate in the nave. He was a tall stork-like fellow with a friendly open face — the sort of person who always seems relaxed and content with his position. I tried to mention the incident in the cemetery but it was soon clear that he had not felt anything unusual in his years in the church, so I did not mention it further. He gave me a key to the rectory and showed me around. The next week, late one summer’s day; a Friday I think, I let myself into the deserted building through the side door.

  Although it was late afternoon the sharp summer sun cast strong shadows in the yard. I stepped over the slate step and pushed aside the heavy door. It was then that I felt a chill and the light seemed to suddenly fade as though I had entered a dark and gloomy forest. I stopped, feeling very uncertain for reasons I could not explain to myself. I put it down to my imagination and carried on with my preparations. The high stained glass windows gave little relief from the gloom so, after a time, I looked for a light to better illuminate my work. Finding none, I finally returned to my car and rummaged around for the old camping lantern I sometimes used. I returned to the rectory and set out my tools and materials on a trestle table that I found in the corner of a bedroom. My preparations complete, I settled down to the task at hand.