short fiction

Our projects

My wife and I have been separated for some years. She lives in a flat in town and I’m out here in the burbs with the lawn mowers and the drug dealers. But we still see each other—daily. I’ll drop over for lunch (she’s made a Moroccan casserole and there’s too much for one person) or she’ll stop in on her way back from somewhere to pick up a bag of lemons from our tree.

We also have our projects. Last week she turned up with a broken wall clock; Saturday there was a problem with her car’s petrol cap; and recently we’ve been working on finding her a new phone. 

We were both in management before we retired, so we like problem-solving. First, she wrote out the criteria for her new phone (both essential and nice-to-have), did the research, studied the reviews and visited phone user forums. Once she’d settled on a model, I went to that auction site and found several quality candidates that balanced price, battery-life and condition (‘imperceptible scratching on the frame’ versus ‘a tiny abrasion on the logo’). Once delivered, I sent her a photo of the box on the kitchen table and a thumbs up emoji. She replied with a green heart.

Next, we worked on how to set up the new phone, how to migrate years of messages and photos, what apps to keep, what plugs and cables were required. I sent her a link to a YouTube video where a technician rehearsed the sequence of manoeuvres needed to effect the upload. ‘It’s easy,’ he said showing us how the phone should look when the transfer was done. 'You see, happy phone.' 

Before the phone project, I had a washing machine emergency. She quickly researched noise ratings, water efficiency and which companies had the lowest carbon footprint and highest ratings for ethical manufacturing. I did the install. 

‘What a team,’ she said as we stood together in the laundry that afternoon watching the new washer slosh through its first cycle. Then we did a clumsy hi-five and for a moment her hand came to rest warm in mine. 

As I sit at my bench with the wall clock disassembled about me, I wonder will this end? Will there come a time when all our appliances are working, all our lightbulbs, our automobiles? Then I look at the flimsy plastic screws they’ve used to fix the clock in place and realise that cheap industrial design will keep us in projects for years. 

I was walking the dog on the beach yesterday morning. A pale wintrous sun had barely crested the horizon and a brisk easterly eddied the sand. A couple had stripped down and were walking into the water (even though the sea is currently down to 18 degrees and with the wind it must have been much colder). They stood apart. Neither egged the other on—it was clear they were serious about the swim. I saw how they hunched into themselves as they entered the water: knee- then waist-deep and I could hear them gasp as a wave broke over their shoulders. Ahead of them waves were lined up across the bay, coming on one after the other. 

Image: Circuits and electronic components of an AWA radio, Sydney, Australia, 1948 – 1953, by Max Dupain c/- State Library of NSW on Flickr.

And for music this morning from 2009 here’s Swedish jazz trio the Esbjörn Svensson Trio (or e.s.t) with  From Gargarin’s Point of View (and Youtube) – from Retrospective The Very Best of E.S.T. (Youtube)

The Port Kembla Mermaids

edge of concrete pool, green water
The woman waddles over the warm cement to the end of the pool. She’s put on a little weight over winter and she’s puffing a bit. She closes in on the deep end, fits her goggles and looks down into the familiar green, the Ionian Sea. Then up on the balls of her feet, head down arms together. The whistle releases her. Push forward and belly slap into the cold—

The water holds her up.

Some of their spines are bent with scoliosis, some grind in their hips or knees. One is lost and her sisters take her by the hand, bring her to her place in the relay. This is their time, a couple of hours on Thursday morning. They love each other, these women, these ariels and ursulas, dorys and madisons. They love each other but once in the water they compete.

The water is a return.

As a teenager she’d lean through the pool with perfect efficiency, head turn for a kiss of air, bow-wave rising from the bridge of her nose. All effortless speed, she was born to this. Dolphin Girl her Dad called her. Bronze in the State and would’ve gone to the Nationals but they couldn’t afford the fares. And then there was Frank and that was that.

The water tells the truth.

Today her arm won’t extend, her hip’s stuck and the kick only works in one leg, the other just drags. And she’s gasping for breath. She moves in awkward esses down her lane. Halfway and there’s the wash as her rival passes. 

The sky is empty. A flight of gulls dip low over the pool then rise, buffeted by the easterly. Supposedly they carry the souls of sailors now doomed to chase bin scraps. 

Men. A few watch from the concrete benches, old blokes sunning themselves, leather bellies over tiny speedos—they yawn and scratch like a lounge of seals. 

The water holds her up. 

She’ll be damned if she stops. Slowly, the body remembers, rhythm returns to her breathing, arm comes higher. The lane marker straightens and the water holds her up 

—and at the end the mermaids are cheering. 

A short piece dedicated with affection to the Port Kembla Mermaids. And for music this morning, what else but Song to the Siren? A 1984 cover of the Tim Buckley song featuring the guitar of Robin Guthrie and voice of Elizabeth Fraser (Cocteau Twins) – and lots of hair gel.

This piece was written on the lands (and the Port Kembla Mermaids swim in the waters) of the Wadi-Wadi people, traditional owners and custodians of the Illawarra.