Pick and Choose

Pick and Choose

An anthology

by

Pat Noad

Copyright © Pat Noad, Brisbane, Australia, 2015

ISBN 978-0-9872412-6-9

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1 Foreword

2 Mother Love – A story

3 A Tale of Two Rallies – A reflection

4 Coming Home – A story

5 On the Scent – A story

6 Working in London – A reflection

7 Purse Strings – A story based on historical fact

8 Hand Signal – A story

9 Under the Skin – A story

10 Backbone – A conversation

11 Through the Lens – A story

12 C is for ... Catalyst – A story

13 Staying in London – A reflection

14 Buried Treasure – A story

15 The Inheritance – A story based on historical fact

16 Rubbing Shoulders – A conversation

17 A Woman of Principle – A story

18 La Dolce Vita – A reflection

19 Having Fun – A story

20 Independence – A conversation

21 The History Lesson – A story based on historical fact

22 Bad Decisions – A reflection

23 The Trouble with Amber – A story

24 By the same author

25 About the author

Foreword

While most of my fiction writing has been in the crime genre, I have always enjoyed writing about the society in which I live. Many of these pieces have been published elsewhere; some were written for competitions – some were successful, while others were not. Now that I have judged a number of writing competitions, I see that whole exercise from a completely different perspective! However, I do recommend competitions to the aspiring writer: it’s a good way to test yourself against other writers. If your stories are singled out for mention, even only a commendation, you have every reason to be encouraged to keep going, as well as having fodder for that all-important writing resume which all writers need when they approach a publisher.

This collection contains some of my early stories, as well as some recent ones. A lot of them are written from a woman’s point of view about women’s lives. Some of them flirt with the supernatural, while others are based on historical fact. I’ve also included some chance conversations – when I sit down on a bus I always say something unremarkable to my neighbour, perhaps about the timetable, perhaps about the weather, to see whether this sparks a response and even a conversation – at best, a germ of a plot. You just never know: it’s amazing what people will pour out to total strangers, as you will see. Plots are everywhere! And then there are a few reflections. As I travel on through life I enjoy looking back over the years and piecing together tiny fragments to create a much bigger picture.

I hope you enjoy reading these pieces as much as I enjoyed writing, and rewriting, and selecting, and editing, and sequencing, this whole collection.

Pat Noad

Brisbane 2015

Mother Love

A story

As tattoos went, it was quite a small one. Hilary peered at it more closely, counting on her designer sunglasses to conceal her scrutiny. Yes, she'd thought so. It was a crab of some sort, Cancer perhaps, neatly emblazoned on the girl's left shoulderblade.

What would persuade a girl do to that? More like who – some bloke, no doubt. He probably had one to match, maybe even the complementary emblem to Cancer – Scorpio? Libra? She couldn't remember. That’s if it was Cancer, of course. She glanced at the girl again. She looked like some surfie's moll, about twenty, tanned and scantily dressed, one earring, fags at the ready, sunbleached hair sweeping across the tattoo. Probably hanging out in the caravan park on the foreshore.

Glancing at her watch Hilary sighed restlessly, scanning the surfers from her vantage point on the dunes. Where the hell was Mark? He was as bad as a teenager when he got to the beach, sussing out the best surf – it was at Coolum this afternoon – grabbing a pair of flippers and tearing into the water and out to the front line of breakers, leaving her sitting her like a shag on a rock. Or another moll.

A wave of irritation swept over her. Had he forgotten that this weekend was for her, her treat, her taste of luxury in Noosa? She was the one that had to endure the ignominy of the IVF treatment, find the time in her incredibly busy schedule, rearrange her clients, apply for deferments of hearings, work late. A barrister's life wasn't easy. And it was doubly hard for women, they still had to be twice as good to get half as far. She remembered she’d been told that when she was studying law, more than fifteen years ago now. Nothing much had changed. She'd learned to fight for what she wanted.

The IVF hadn't worked. Not yet, anyway. Last week had brought another bitter disappointment; they'd come to the Sunshine Coast for a weekend to take their minds off it all, to get away from enquiring friends and family. Particularly those with young children. Most particularly those who were pregnant.

She and Mark had never set out to be dinks, members of the double-income-no-kids brigade. They'd decided to spend their first years of marriage getting themselves established, her in her law career, him in his dental practice. So precautions had been taken. After finally finding and buying their ideal house and settling in, the precautions were abandoned. With no pregnancy after two years, they'd sought advice; a year later, tests. Now, twelve years married and with Hilary's reproductive time running out, they'd decided to go on the IVF program.

Hilary breathed deeply, unclenching her fists. Relax, the specialists said, you've got to make an effort. An effort to relax? Wasn't that some sort of contradiction? The trouble was, she couldn't get her mind off it. Her failure to conceive crouched behind every thought, every action, every conversation. It was the first thing in her mind in the morning and the last thing at night. Failure wasn't her scene, it never had been. She'd always been a success, at school, at University, at sport, at work, with boys ... it was so unfair.

She remembered how the obstetrician had looked quizzically over his glasses at the word unfair.

‘Conception has nothing to do with equity, Mrs Marshall,’ he'd pointed out dryly. ‘Anyway, what makes you think it's unfair?’

She had that answer at the ready. It rattled through her brain daily, hourly. ‘Because we've got so much to offer a child,’ she'd said. She'd ticked the points off on her fingers. ‘A lovely home, a stable marriage, established careers, good incomes, a healthy lifestyle, an extended family. We value education and we can afford the best ...’

He'd raised his eyebrows. ‘Don't you think that puts parenthood on a very – what's the term? – socioeconomic footing? Which may not be the most important factor at all.’

She'd felt particularly tired and irritable that day. ‘Well, why not? Just think about it. How do we compare with parents with no job? or no partner even? or home? or a rotten relationship? Lots of them don't have any trouble producing babies, but what can they offer? Damn all, that's what.’

He'd hesitated. ‘You did leave out something rather important.’

‘Like...?’

‘Love. Don't you think that matters?’

She'd softened. ‘Of course. But loving isn’t coping, is it? That's all I'm saying.’

She squinted out to sea. That looked like Mark, head down, bottom up, flipper waving, crashing down on a dumper. At least he was heading towards the shore. Her reflections were rudely interrupted by a squeal from the moll, sitting on the other end of her bench.

‘Adam, put that down and come here! Now!’

Down on the beach a sturdy child of about two with a shaggy mop of fair hair turned, stamped his foot and pouted. ‘No.’ He clung to the seaweed he’d been tasting.

A shaft of physical pain shot through Hilary. Even her, she thought bitterly. Look at her. Tattooed, no education, probably as poor as a church mouse, probably a single mother. But she could have a child. Who she obviously couldn't handle.

The moll's voice was more strident. ‘You do what I tell you Adam. Come here. Now. Your father's coming soon, he'll see to you.’

Oh well, at least he had a father – probably some layabout on welfare.

Adam glared at his mother then resolutely turned to watch the sea, squatting in the sand with his back to her. Sighing, she lit a cigarette and turned to Hilary.

‘Bloody kids. He was okay till he turned two. Then he got all stubborn. Now he's a right little bastard.’ She flicked some ash on to the sand. ‘You got kids?’

Hilary swallowed, edging away from the spiral of smoke. ‘Not yet.’

The moll snorted. ‘Make the most of it luv, life's never the same again. Not a minute to yourself. I got to watch him like a hawk.’

Hilary turned to face the sea, willing Mark to come. As if on cue he emerged from the shallows, pulled off his flippers, waved and headed in her direction.

‘That your bloke? Mine's still out on his bloody board. Should have married it, not me, I tell him. Adam!!’ Her voice rose to a scream.

Hilary froze. Two Rottweilers off their leashes were bounding toward Adam. Their elderly owner panted along behind calling fruitlessly, ‘Sodom, Gomorrah, here girls, come here.’

‘Adam, get away from them. Adam you listen to me, come here. Now!!’ Adam sat transfixed, watching the slavering dogs approach. Then he started to howl. The moll was on her feet, racing toward her son.

The dogs smelt fear. Adam flung a handful of sand at them. That did it. They leaped at him, sinking teeth into his limbs while the little boy screamed in pain and terror. The elderly owner pranced around, flicking the leashes at them, prattling their names, trying to call them off. The moll didn't hesitate. She flung herself into the melee, beating off the dogs, covering her son's body, screaming as their fangs ripped into her arms and legs.

Hilary jumped to her feet appalled, with no idea what to do. Before she could move Mark was on the scene, beating at the dogs with his flippers, yelling at her to get the lifesavers. She raced toward the clubhouse, shrieking as she went. Another man came tearing up the beach.

‘Jesus, that's my wife and kid. Get off, you buggers.’ He grabbed one collar with both hands and yanked the huge head back, its bloodstained teeth bared and menacing. It took all his strength to control the rampant animal.

Three lifesavers armed with oars and planks weighed in, smashing at the dogs’ heads. It was probably only minutes, but it seemed an eternity to Hilary before they dragged the battered animals off.

‘Shar luv, Adam, are you okay, Jesus look at you both, Christ almighty ...’ the surfer was sobbing.

Mark and the lifesavers were on their knees, checking pulses, stemming blood with towels. He looked up. ‘Might not be as bad as it looks, mate. You need to get them to hospital though, right now ... ‘

‘Ambulance coming.’ More lifesavers arrived with stretchers. The wail of sirens in the background grew louder.

‘Come on Hilary, we’ll follow them,’ said Mark, pulling on a T-shirt.

‘Why? What for?’ She had difficulty getting the words out, her lips seemed frozen.

He looked at her sharply. ‘You okay, sweets?’ He put an arm round her shoulders. ‘They’ll need witnesses, of course, for the police report. And probably all the help they can get. It’s the least we can do.’

‘Oh. Yes.’

The tears didn’t come until they were in the car. Then they were unstoppable. Mark, alarmed, pulled up and put a hand on Hilary’s knee.

‘You’re in shock, darling,’ he said gently. ‘I’m sorry, I just didn’t realise. I’ll take you back to the apartment and go on myself.’

She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. ‘It’s not that. Though it was horrible. Just horrible. No, I’ll come. I want to.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘I thought ...’ she choked.

‘Yes ...?’

‘I knew I’d be such a great mother. And she seemed ... such a ... I mean, I thought...’ She gulped. Then the words tumbled out. ‘I couldn’t, Mark. Do what she did. I know it. I just couldn’t...’

The End

A Tale of Two Rallies

A reflection

It was quite late, after nine, when her daughter phoned, sounding all fired up. Her heart sank – not another earbashing about the changes to the State Government subsidy for bus services. Surely she'd heard Amanda's diatribe several times over. Wrong! Complaints had transformed into action, it seemed.

Community outrage had triggered a rally in the city the next day, Amanda announced; it was all on Facebook, but she was ringing all those dinosaurs who weren't into Facebook. Like her mother. They were rounding up every warm body they could get tomorrow. Did she realise this could save her grandchildren from a fate worse than death? Could she come and swell the crowd? They'd lined up local television station Channel 9 to send a news van. Angry opposition politicians would be leading the charge of the hundreds of enraged Parents’ and Citizens’ committees and their supporters. At eleven in the morning they were marching on Parliament House. Amanda would meet her just beforehand at a nearby intersection. Then she was gone, Mum crossed off the list, another dinosaur target on the line.

She put the phone down with a sigh. She was a bit past manning the barricades, she thought, but she did have the morning free. She supposed she should turn up: yet another grandmotherly duty landed on her from out of the blue.

It might be fun, though.

She thought back to their trip to Spain in 2011. She and her husband had taken a little apartment in Madrid for a week to explore this sunny, stately, serene city at leisure. After a few days they'd noticed occasional speakers yelling into megaphones on street corners and in parks, who seemed to attract an instant crowd. Then they were off on their bus tour of the lovely old towns in the south with their elegant, extravagant Moorish palaces – Granada, Seville, Toledo. They'd asked the guide what the rabble-rousers in Madrid wanted. He shrugged. Who knows? We're Spanish, he pointed out. Someone's always kicking up a fuss about something.

When the bus arrived back in Madrid four days later half the roads were blocked off. The passengers were decanted outside the city centre and left to struggle to their accommodation under their own steam, dragging their luggage behind them. Their hotel was just behind the majestic Plaza d'Espagne. Shouldering their way through the crowded streets, they ground to a halt when they reached the Plaza and stared open-mouthed. They were speechless.

Could this be the same magnificent Plaza where they’d dined under the stars the night before they left, fountains playing, guitars strumming, lovers promenading? A mere four nights ago? Now it was packed with people, tents, placards, banners. Megaphones and PA systems boomed and roared, echoing around the elegant old buildings and colonnades lining the square. Despite a row of battered portaloos the Plaza stank of urine. Litter was knee-deep. The hundreds of unwashed, long-haired, bearded characters handing out indecipherable manifestos looked as if they'd been staking it out for years.

The Indignados had arrived.

By the time they left Madrid a day or so later the whole city had been occupied by a seemingly endless supply of Indignados who colonised the great Plazas with passion, energy and flair. The CBD had ground to a complete halt with traffic diverted, cafe society booming but other businesses shutting their doors. They still hadn't quite grasped what the Indignados were so indignant about – like everything, they'd been told. They saw on TV