Garth Dutton

Cold Wind From The South (Part 3) – A Short Story

Cold Wind From The South (Part 3)
© Garth Dutton, 2007

    A few months after the dream, their ‘Church of the Feminine Earth Spirit” had its
first doctrinal split. The issue involved was whether the fossil fuels used in the Industrial
Age were meant to be used to stabilize the climate for the whole of Earth’s benefit, or
whether they were laid down specifically to enable humanity to survive a long Ice Age.
In a way, the argument was completely irrelevant, because there was not much left of the
fossil fuels. No-one had any idea how people were going to survive an Ice Age
without fossil fuels for heating, and there was no oil left to raise the CO2 levels to stop
the Ice Age. Many people were starting to put their trust in the ‘Church of the Natural
Balance’, as they alone believed that they could stop the Ice Age. But the concept of the
Feminine Earth Spirit appealed to many people as well. A considerable number joined
both churches.
     But it was an old argument, in new guise, about whether people are an integral
part of the environment, or a class of beings apart from it in consciousness, intellect,
destiny, and so on… In other words, were the fossil fuels created for the whole of Earth’s
benefit, or only for people’s benefit. The split was irreconcilable. About 45% of members
left with the dissenting councillors. Bitter arguments followed in court about the Church’s
now considerable income and assets.
    “Things are going off the rails,” said Smyth, as he and Pauline walked out of the
Adelaide Courthouse.
    “Just consider the distance we’ve come since that day in the seaside bar,” Pauline
reminded him. “After that session in court, I feel like a drive and a cup of tea or coffee
somewhere down beside the sea. Pick a beach suburb you haven’t been to in years and
we’ll go there.”
    “How about Semaphore?” he suggested.
    “Why not,” she replied.
    They reached their hydrogen fuel cell car and drove west towards the beach. They
neared the coast a short distance south of Semaphore. The road, called Military Road,
went between the lake plus housing estates of West Lakes and the built-on remnants of
sandhills.
    “The problem with making too many plans,” said Smyth. “Is that we haven’t
much idea what is going on in the rest of the world. Like what is really happening in
countries like Canada, Scandinavia, Russia and Scotland? They could be under metres of
ice and snow for all we know.”
    ‘The democratic government takes the line that what we don’t know can’t hurt us.
They haven’t lifted censorship on the NET, for example,” said Pauline. “Not much we
can do about that… Could you imagine a landscape under ice like that?”
He found he could envisage such a scene and went on to describe it to her. He had
always refused to say anything about his time in the State Security Police, even to
Pauline. She now saw how they had used his skills. He could describe in detail a real
scenario from a few fragments of information.
    “If you can describe it in that detail, then that it what is actually like. Right
now…” she said in wonder. “Mentally part of you was just there.”
    Smyth frowned. Objections to her point of view filled his mind. “I can’t see how
that’s possible,” he replied.
    “Neither can I, love, but it doesn’t matter,” she said warmly. “But it’s a skill you
shouldn’t be ashamed of.”
    Smyth spilled out deep fears. “The dread that a scenario would be wrong in some
slight, but significant detail, made my life in the Security Police a nightmare,” he said to
her for the first time. There was no need to say more.
    “That’s why that other nightmare still worries you, isn’t it? That’s why! In case
some important detail was wrong,” Pauline said softly. “I told you that everything
anyone does involves risk. One has to be a warrior. A warrior can cope with any
circumstances that arise, so doesn’t live in constant fear of the future. Collective
Consciousness warned you, so it’s on your side. A powerful ally, if ever there was one.”
She smiled to re-assure him, then continued. “In a way, all circumstances in the future are
unseen, because everything we do involves choices. And risks. I’m not sure premonitions
really exist. At best they’d be warnings, not factual events.”
They came to Fort Glanville and turned into the short road that would bring them
to the Esplanade.
“Fort Glanville,” said Pauline. “Now there was a scare. About 200 years ago, in
the 1850’s during the Crimean War, there was a rumour, and a wild panic that the
Russians were coming. So they built this fort, and a few others, and linked them by
Military Road to repel the invasion.”
    “I know the story,” Smyth said as they came to the Esplanade. He stopped the car.
They got out to look at the beach and sea.
    Suddenly Pauline turned pale. “Two hundred years ago,” she murmured.
“Someone had a dream or vision. What if it was a dream or vision ‘out of time’, if that’s
how it’s described? Two hundred years ‘out of time’. Not an event, just a warning.”
    Smyth’s vision of the northern pine forests sticking out of a metre of ice
drifted back into their minds. They looked at each other and then out to sea. And as they
watched, the first grey warships appeared on the horizon.

Tags: adelaide, author, garth dutton, short story

The Relief Teacher (Part 2) – A Short Story

The Relief Teacher (Part 2)
© Garth Dutton 2008
   
A student in the middle of the class attracted Carol’s attention, so she asked her to speak. The student began… “I’m Ana, and I’m of Portuguese descent. In Portuguese we have a quite different word for the environment. It is called ‘o ambiente’. The word ‘ambient’ also exists in English. We came across it in Physics, when we discussed the ‘ambient temperature of the room.’ So in Portuguese, ‘o ambiente’, is something everyone is in all of the time. You can’t not be in it. ‘Environment’ is related to the French word ‘environs’. Mum and Dad have an “Adelaide and Environs” street directory in their car. The environs of Adelaide are places like Willunga, Gawler, Bridgewater, and so on. So in English the ‘environment’ is something that is ‘out there’. She pointed out of the classroom window to the hills. It’s a quite different conception of reality to ‘ambiente’. Also, in Portuguese, the term is masculine. Many people who speak English think of ‘the environment’ as being feminine.”
   
Carol thanked her. “You’ve certainly given us something to think about,” she said.

    John, who hadn’t said anything yet, put up his hand, and when given acknowledgment to speak, said. “I’m John, and last Christmas I went with Mum and Dad up to see my aunt and uncle in Queensland. On the way we drove through the Pilliga Forest in Northern New South Wales. Dad said that once it used to be all grassland, and isolated trees, but now it’s grown into a huge, tall, dense forest. The reason is that aboriginal people used to burn the land to keep it open kangaroo country, but once they were killed off or put in reserves, the trees took over.” He paused for effect. Then he continued. “So the forest has grown by people not doing something… burning. So is it therefore a ‘natural’ forest, or a man-made one?
“
There was a short silence, then Tan spoke, again in a rather tentative halting English. “I’m still thinking about Waikiki Beach,” she said. “It has to be a natural beach, because people didn’t create the sand. They only moved the sand from one place to another. Nature created the sand.”

Alan took up her point. “Supposing they only dumped the sand at one end of the bay, and let natural processes like waves, tides and wind spread it to make the beach. Would it be natural or man-made?”

Alice caught Carol’s attention, and said. “Miss, I object to the term, ‘man-made.’ Could we use ‘person-made’ instead. In third world countries plenty of women work on construction projects.”

Jenny interjected. “But sometimes some problems are ‘man-made’, like the extermination of whales. Of all the millions of them wiped out in the past 400 years, how many would have been killed by women… probably none…” Carol recalled seeing a Greenpeace sticker on Jenny’s bag when she entered the classroom. She realized the lesson would be running out of time shortly, so brought the class’ attention back to herself.

“I’ve thought of one,” Carol said. “Last year, I went up to the Flinders Ranges, and visited one of the National Parks up there. These types of Parks have been set up to preserve the ‘natural environment’. But suppose one ranger lives in the Park. It then has one human inhabitant, so isn’t it part of the ‘Human Environment’?”

Another thought came to her. “Suppose we agreed that no-one live there, and it remained a wilderness without people. But we became proud of what we had done by setting up such a Park, and it became part of our culture. Isn’t it then still a part of the ‘Human Environment.”

Con took up her point. “Mr. Smith showed us a video earlier in the year about the Amazon Rain Forest, and the Native American peoples living there. They live in villages scattered here and there throughout the forest. They are people, too, so by the definitions on the board it would have to be part of the ‘Human Environment,” he said.

Since raising the problem of the beach, Rob had said nothing, just listened to the discussion with a self-satisfied look on his face. He could see that they were running out of time for the lesson, so said. “The only term that has any meaning in this context is ‘Environment’, or ‘ambiente’ as you call it, Ana. If you use ‘Human and Natural’; or ‘Natural’ and ‘Man-made’; or ‘Natural and ‘Person-changed’; or whatever, it is…” He searched for a term and found it. “Logically unsustainable!” The class and the teacher agreed with him.

Rob continued. “The question is, Miss Jansen, what is going to happen to this information now we have arrived at this conclusion?”

Carol thought about that. She saw she would need to do something with the information. She decided to be quite honest with the class.

“I’ll certainly take it up with other teachers here at the school,” she said. On further consideration, she continued. “And the content of the lesson I can bring to the attention of the Geography Teachers’ Association. You could also write a class letter to Dr David Suzuki in Canada, or Sir David Attenborough in England, or both. I am a member of Friends of the David Suzuki Foundation, so I already have his address. You could write to the ABC, or the British High Commission in Canberra, to get an address for Sir David. Perhaps you could also send a class letter to the State and Federal Ministers for Environment.” The class seemed very satisfied by that.

“In the few minutes left, could you copy down the definitions etc. on the board,” said Carol. There was a murmur from the class. They did not seem too happy with the suggestion.

Jenny gave a sigh, and put up her hand. “Do we really need to copy down those things,” she said. “Now that we have seen it set out like that, it is self-evident… A single category, “Environment”, is the only one that makes any sense at all. Is there anyone in the class who can’t see that?”

There was silence in the room. The bell rang.

“Right,” said Carol. “Write your own summaries for homework. Thanks for a great lesson.” There was a murmur of assent from the class, and they began to pack up their books and bags.

Gina gave the chalk back to Carol. “Oh…also…” Gina said. “The Water Cycle… Evaporation from the sea, clouds, rain, run-off, rivers back to the sea…is self-evident, too, once you have seen the diagram once, and worked your way through it. Yet each year, it is taught as if it is a very difficult concept to grasp.” She smiled, and then said confidentially
“Actually Mr. Smith is quite a good teacher. We are seen as a very ‘mixed-ability’ class. Rob, Alan and Jenny pick up everything first go. The rest of us have to work on it. Some have a poor command of written work, or English. Mr. Smith has a problem, in that, if he keeps on giving extra work to those three, who always finish first, then they will get further and further ahead of the rest of the class. But if he doesn’t, they get bored and start doing stupid things.”

“I know the problem,” said Carol.

Gina continued. “Lately, he’s taken to getting those three to help others who haven’t grasped the concept concerned. At first, they considered others slower than themselves as ‘thick’, and didn’t like doing so. Now they are getting used to helping. I think we will all pass this subject this year.” She said this last sentence with emphasis. Then she went to get her bag and books. “Bye” she said.

“Thanks very much for being my scribe!” called out Carol as Gina left the room.

Rob had been writing something on the board while Carol was involved speaking to Gina. He had written ‘Please Leave” at the top, and underlined it several times. Underneath the details, he had written. “This concept, ‘beach’, makes the dual categories logically unsustainable”

“We might need it next Geography lesson,” he said with a smirk, and was gone.

Clive, the teacher of English, walked into the classroom. He scanned the material on the board, and said. “Fascinating stuff! Mind if I use it as part of my lesson. The problem of accurately defining things in English! A good example!” His students started to arrive.

“Seems like you had a good lesson,” he said.

Carol agreed, as she packed up her books and papers. She had her only free lesson for the day next, and needed a cup of coffee. “I’m a relief teacher, and they didn’t give me a hard time!” she said with a smile.

“Then it has to have been a good lesson, whether they learned anything or not,” said Clive. He looked at the blackboard again, and said, “I think they probably did. Have you got another class now?”

She shook her head. “The class I should have is on a full morning’s science excursion,” she replied.

“Would you like to sit in on the whole, or part of, an English class,” he asked. “You could explain a few more details about this.” He indicated towards the information on the board.

The prospect of a cup of coffee receded. “Fine,” Carol replied. She hadn’t yet taken an English class for relief teaching. It would be good experience to sit in on one.

Clive settled down his class, and said. “We have a visitor today… Miss Jansen… And we have a surprise. We are going to begin today’s English lesson by talking about the beach.”

Tags: author, Environment, garth dutton, geography, Prose, short story, teacher

Dictator – A Short Story

This short story is called “Dictator” and it is from my 1992 book of environmental short stories called “An Olive Tree, A Dictator, And A Letterbox.” I had 300 copies printed and sold them all in 18 months. The Iraq Hostage Crisis that preceded to first Gulf War is now long forgotten, swept from people’s memories by subsequent events. The first Gulf War began within hours of the release of the last hostage.

I hope you enjoy “Dictator”

Dictator
© Garth Dutton 1992

Eric sipped his cup of coffee, then put it down on one of the staff room tables. The coffee was much too hot. Having reserved his seat by leaving his cup there, he went to the large lunch box that had just arrived from the school canteen. He found the pasty he had ordered and returned to his seat.

Alex, the Social Studies teacher with whom Eric worked for some lessons, came and sat near him at the table, as did Jenny, a contract History and Remedial English teacher.

“Eric, do you know Jenny? asked Alex.

“Not yet,” replied Eric. “Or should I say, I’ve seen you around, but haven’t really been introduced till now.” They shook hands across the table.

“How long are you here for?” asked Jenny.

“Another three weeks,” Eric replied. “ Teaching Practice. I’m an adult Graduate Diploma of Education student at University.”

“Why would you want to get into teaching, with the latest cutbacks, and the big surplus of teachers?” enquired Jenny, quite curious. “It’s difficult enough even for people with a lot of experience in the system.”

“An eight year old son who has been classified as dyslexic,” replied Eric. “So I’ve developed a frantic interest in the whole process of learning, education, and the design of teaching materials. Even if I couldn’t get a full time job on graduation, it mightn’t really matter. I’ve learned a huge amount in the course to date. I’ve become more interested in Remedial Teaching at primary school anyway. I’d be happy with relief teaching at secondary level.”

“I wish you luck! Remedial is hard but rewarding work. So is Relief Teaching.” They would have gone on to discuss Eric’s son’s reading problems, but Alex said, “Oh, before I forget, Eric, you mentioned this morning that you’ve come up with some sort of game for getting students to learn geography-style maps quicker and better.”

“Yes!” replied Eric. “Over the weekend I was reading a long article in the newspaper about Saddam Hussein and the current Hostage Crisis in Iraq. I thought up the sketchy beginnings of a game called  ‘Dictator’. It would go like this…”

He put on an official-sounding voice. “One draws an ‘action’ card to start the game. It reads as follows. ACTION : ‘Dictator seizes control of oil-rich sheikhdom.’ Then you draw a ‘rationale’ card. RATIONALE: ‘ Not known… Dictator refuses to say why this action has been taken…’ Students would then have to locate Kuwait on the map, have a look at where the world’s oil reserves are located, and so on, and try to make sense of Dictator’s action. Then play the game to try to defeat Dictator.”

Alex considered the idea. I’ve just had a thought,” he said. “How about this! You also have to draw a card for which country Dictator is ruling. For instance it would make a big difference if Dictator was ruler of the United States or Monaco; Leichenstein or China, or a country with no oil of its own.”

“True!” said Eric. “Perhaps we should only give the present situation of Iraq occupying Kuwait as an example of how the game works.”

“For example, you could ask if there are any precedents?” suggested Jenny. “To me the Indonesian occupation of East Timor is the obvious one.”

“Yes, and then locate that place on the map, find out what East Timor’s resources are and compare them to Kuwait’s, and so on…” said Eric. “Quite a bit of research involved, as well as development of map skills, and understanding the strategic nature of most of the world’s resources.”

He looked serious. “Another card I thought about was, ACTION: ‘Dictator announces plan to take over all the world’s cities over 10 million people.’ RATIONALE: Dictator simply says “It is necessary.” Students would then have to locate those cities, and so forth…In this game, which could be a board game or a computer game, students could play it individually, (and so try to defeat Dictator single-handedly), or they could play as a team of allies trying to stop him.”

Eric frowned. “Oh Dear! Sexist language. Of course Dictator would have to be able to be female as well as the usual male stereotype. ‘A coalition to stop dictator’ is what I should have said.”

“Makes me think of Margaret Thatcher,” said Alex, stroking his greying moustache. “Orwell warned us of the possibility of Big Brother in his novel ‘Nineteen Eighty-four’, but didn’t consider the possibility of a Big Sister. I bet John Major feels like her little brother at times with her still lurking in the background.

Jenny looked at Eric sadly, and said, “Sorry, but I’m beginning to see all sorts of problems with this concept. For instance, imagine an ACTION card that reads ‘Dictator announces plan to take over all the world’s remaining rain forests as a personal National Park’. RATIONALE: ‘Dictator wants to go down as one of the greatest figures in history. The leader whose personal action saved the rainforests, (and therefore the climate) for posterity.’

Alex interrupted. “I go back to my previous point. A card for the country. Say you draw Brazil. Presumably the Amazon Forest, or what’s left of it is then safe. Dictator now needs to conquer the rest of the tropics. Talk about side benefits… To save the rain forests, Dictator gains a monopoly on tropical products.”

Alex continued visibly for a few moments, then continued. “Alternatively, you draw a card that reads ‘Nauru’, and you are left with the Dictator of a mini-state with no army, a handful of people and an island almost stripped bare by phosphate mining, setting out to save the world’s rain forests.”

“The latter might even cause some other countries to consider where they stand on the question of rain forest timber use,” suggested Jenny. “But what I really had in mind
was the implications of winning or losing in such a situation. For example, forget the country involved for the moment, Dictator has announced his or her plan to take over the rain forests. You, the player, see Dictator’s rationale as pure ego trip and personal aggrandisement, so set out to defeat Dictator. But what happens to the rain forests if you win? What happens to democracy if you lose?” She let those points sink in, then continued. “Suppose you defeat Dictator, but then feel obliged to set up your own plan to save the rain forests. Would not Dictator then have actually won?… Hasn’t Dictator got checkmate?…” She certainly had a point.

Alex again stroked his moustache. “I wonder how long it will be before some real-life dictator jumps on a ‘green’ bandwagon? Perhaps George Bush is making the world safe for democracy by getting rid of as many dictators as possible before that happens. Hard line on Col. Gaddafi, arresting Noreiga, and now responding to Iraq’s occupation of Kuwait in such a way that it’s apparent he’ll get rid of Saddam Hussein if at all possible.”

“It mightn’t come to war. There’s always hope someone will persuade Hussein to withdraw… Russia… The other Arab countries… There has to be hope,” said Jenny. There has to be.”

Alex looked deep in thought. “I wonder what would happen if someone did propose a peace plan, Saddam Hussein accepted, and agreed to withdraw from Kuwait. He certainly would use acceptance of any Russian or Arab peace plan as a propaganda victory against America. Personally saving the world from war and all that…” He took a drink of his coffee, and continued. The question is really, ‘Could the Americans cope with the concept of a dictator who was capable of changing his mind and admitting a mistake?’ I wonder?” He shrugged. “For that matter, could we cope? Only time will tell.” The others could add nothing except, “Only time will tell.”

“Back to the game concept, and the rain forest for the moment,” said Jenny. “Democracy has got to both do, and be seen to be doing, something about environmental problems like the greenhouse effect, the damage to the ozone layer, and the cutting down of the world’s forests, or it is going to lose the loyalty of quite a lot of young people brought up with Environmental Education at school.” She looked straight at Eric.

“As you’ve pointed out, Eric, sooner or later some dictator will try to get a bit of glory, or some personal mileage, out of these issues. That was my point about the rainforest example. What would you do about someone was trying to save the rain forests, but doing so by means of government that are indefensible?” Neither Eric nor Alex had an immediate answer. Dictator can’t lose by taking on such an issue, as I see it,” she added.

Eric too saw a problem. “ What if Saddam Hussein were to offer to release his ‘guests’ in return for an immediate halt to killing of whales. What would we do?” Again, they had no immediate answer.

“Or offered to withdraw from Kuwait as soon as the destruction of rain forests stopped,” added Alex, thoughtfully.”

“Personally, I’d like to see him get the Indonesians withdraw from East Timor in return for withdrawal from Kuwait,” said Jenny bitterly. “ It may be the only hope of ever freeing East Timor.”

“Jenny also feels Australia’s role in events in East Timor in 1975, and after, was appalling,” Alex said to Eric.

Eric looked at Jenny. He could see that East Timor was a very bitter issue for her. He nodded agreement, but considered it unwise to pursue the matter further. There was an awkward silence, broken by Alex, who said, almost to himself. “I can see now why the U.N. is adamant that Iraq’s withdrawal from Kuwait is unconditional. There is no way Bush, Major, or the U.N. will have this issue linked to any other. No way! They have said so in no uncertain terms. To do otherwise would be to give in to blackmail. People’s lives are at stake.”

Eric decided to return the conversation to his game. “As I see the game,” he said. The really good point is that every rationale that Dictator might have would be equally believable, because dictators can range from benevolent to complete crackpots. Plus dictatorship is really in the news at the moment. The whole point of the game is to defeat Dictator, but learn a whole lot about the world and its resources on the way.”

There was a short short silence, then Jenny shook her head. She raised her hand and pushed a wisp of blonde hair back into place. “The more I think about the whole concept,” she said, “the more unworkable it seems. In the example you used ,Eric, about Dictator’s plan to take over all cities of over 10 million people, then simply saying, “It is necessary…” For me that conjures up visions of Stalin, the enforced collectivisations of agriculture in the 1930’s, and the Ukrainian famines he deliberately created to wipe out the whole Kulak class of peasants. A simplistic solution, and totally ruthless means…”

“A choice of different RATIONALE cards could be interesting on this one,” suggested Alex. “Card one we have a Stalin or Hitler who simply says, “It is necessary…”; card two reads, ‘Dictator’s previous occupation was Town & City Planner’; card three reads, ’As a child Dictator always wanted cornflakes for breakfast, but was always given porridge’. Three different scenarios as to why Dictator might want to control mega-cities.”

“In fact, it shows up the worst fault of dictatorship,” said Jenny , passionately. “ If  a dictator goes off the rails mentally along the way, or was in Cloud Cuckoo Land from the beginning, the consequences for the country, and the world, can be appalling.” She calmed down a little, and added. “With any luck, a just and peaceful end to the present Gulf Crisis will put an end to wars over resources in the real world, at least for a while.” She gave Eric a supportive smile, but said, “Sorry Eric, as I see it, this whole concept deserves to be put into the ‘too hard’ basket, perhaps permanently.”

“The basic idea seems feasible,” said Alex, thoughtfully. “It’s the political and social implications of what the game is saying that’s the problem. For example, that any country can fall under dictatorship. Sad in a way, because it could be a really useful tool for the study of maps, and for gaining a wide knowledge and understanding of resources and global issues.”

“The problem is in the images and background it conjures up,” said Jenny.” And there is no way we should ever suggest to students that dictatorship is a way of getting things done. Kids are disillusioned enough with democratic processes as it is. In 10 years in schools, off and on, I’ve never met a student yet who aspires to be a politician as a career.” They lapsed into silence.

“ Thanks anyway!” said Eric, with a resigned smile. “It’s good of you both to talk this out with me. The only way to find out if an idea is feasible is to spell it out and get some feedback. It’s good to be at a school where I can do that.” He hoped he was right. If not, it might show on his teaching practice report.

The bell rang.

“Oh well, back to the classroom for the afternoon, said Jenny.

Eric raised his eyebrows. “You make it sound like going out of the trenches, and over the top, in the Battle of the Somme.”

“Isn’t it?” replied Jenny, in a non-serious tone of voice. “It poured with rain all weekend, so the students had no chance to run off surplus energy. Also, it’s really windy outside today…That throws them. they are quite scatty on windy days.”

They all agreed, and as they rinsed their cups and plates, Jenny said to Eric, “I am now trying my very best to get students to be form supporters of democracy. You know why? Recently I heard a rumour that thousands of children from around the world have written to Saddam Hussein. Their letters all begin the same way apparently.”

“Dear Saddam Hussein,

Please release the hostages…”

Eric too saw a mental picture of children’s letters with scrawly handwriting. “They only have to change one person’s mind,” she said, “ and the hostages will be released. Those kids can see that. That’s why they wrote. I consider children writing to a dictator as the worst threat democracy has faced.”

“Suppose, in reality, no children wrote, and the rumour was entirely Iraqi propaganda.” suggested Eric.

Jenny caught eye contact with him. “What is the propaganda saying then?”

“That Saddam Hussein is prepared to what children have to say,” said Eric. He looked at Jenny. “I see what you mean.”

The second bell rang, and as they headed out of the staff room, Jenny sighed. “Dictator announces plan to abolish windy Monday afternoons,” she said with a smile.

“I don’t think I’ll put too much heart into opposing Dictator, said Alex, and then to Eric. “Put the concept in wraps for a while. You never know, something might come out of it eventually.”

And with that they went to their classrooms.

Tags: author, dictator, garth dutton, iran, iraq, saddam hussein, short story, Writing

No Second Chance – A Short Story

No Second Chance
© Garth Dutton, 2009

The only time they ever saw each other was at a kindergarten playgroup. Each brought their own small child. Attraction grew over a period of time, though it was rarely expressed by more than an acknowledgement of each other by eyes, and the hint of a fleeting smile.

They spoke in soft silences, under the ever watchful eyes of others. Occasionally they had brief conversations before their children recognised the threat to their own individual affection and attention. Then it would be children dragging adults separate ways to swings or painting, any kind of separate activities.

Each week, they left the meaningful silences of the kindergarten for the hostile silences of other relationships. This went on for some time…

He acknowledged that she was having a difficult time of things, and she thought it helpful to say that he had courage to bring his child to the playgroup, for by doing so, he was openly advertising that he was not employed.

The relationship between them thereafter became progressively strained. She was bitter that an expected offer was not forthcoming, and began, step by step, to distance herself from him.

He felt her draw back, and at first he could not understand why. It came to him, painfully and slowly, that his entire approach had been wrong. He thought he had done all the right things, but now he saw that wasn’t so.

To show that he found her attractive had been a step forward on his part. She had acknowledged that she too was attracted. Almost against his will, he had taken a second step forward, for at all times he was with her all his best qualities had been on display. It remained for her to assess him, and decide if she was interested in taking the relationship further. The relationship had stalled, for as he waited for her to take that second step, she waited on him to take another step forward.

For a moment he pretended he was someone else. How then would he have proceeded? His painful enlightenment began. Attraction, then he would have to frame some very positive verbal offer. But he saw that if such an offer was angrily rejected, his whole position bringing his child there would be under threat. In any case, his financial circumstances ruled out most offers he could think of. But he saw it would have to be done.

The next week, when they came to playgroup, she could see he was visibly trying to frame an offer to her. She was surprised. It seemed so out of character, almost false. All of a sudden, the colour drained from her face. For the first time she realised that what had been going on between them was as visible to the adults present as it was to the children, and always had been. She thought of how well he treated her and realised that by doing so he was making an offer anyway. She simply hadn’t recognised it as such.

She made herself a cup of coffee, then took her child out to the sandpit to play. She talked with other mothers, but her mind was elsewhere. It came to her that she would need to respond with some word of gesture or the relationship would be at an end. To just take his hand for a moment, a quick kiss, or a whispered “I love you,” would be enough, and the relationship would progress rapidly to consummation.

She avoided contact with him, while she battled with herself about what to do. Sadly she came to realise hat her background had won. There was no way she could bring herself to take the necessary step, no matter how much she wanted to. In her culture, the man had to take the lead all the way.

As the session finished, they had eye contact. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, but with such finality, that he realised there could be no second chance. She could never go there again, so poured her heart out to the Director of the kindergarten, who arranged for her child to be enrolled in another kindergarten in nearby suburb.

He went home broken-hearted and tried to rationalise that both their circumstances were such that nothing had been possible anyway. That night, he watched the evening T.V. news. There were local items and some for overseas, including one from his homeland. And in his heart he was there, not here.

Tags: author, garth dutton, Prose, short story, story

The Eagle – A Short Story

When I write romance short stories, I specialize in looking at the infinite ways men and women get together in the first place. Library was a short story of this type, The Eagle is another.

The Eagle
© Garth Dutton, 2005

Peter had been to this restaurant before and he really liked the painting of the eagle on the wall. It flew serenely, high above a beautiful tropical landscape that reminded him of the Philippines.

But unseen in the picture were skirmishes of war, landlords growing richer and peasants poorer, and all the time the population growing, growing… A volcano brooded silently in the background. A conflict waiting to explode. The eagle saw all, but was above it all.

The purpose of the occasion was that a very heavily-pregnant Pauline was leaving to have her baby, and this was the office luncheon for her farewell. Most of the staff had arrived and were having drinks. Pauline looked very fit and a picture of health, despite her bulk. Peter talked to her, and Anna joined in the conversation.

Anna disturbed Peter. She was thirty years old and divorced. Her marriage had fallen apart before there were any children. His marriage was falling apart after three children. Rather against his will, he always found her very attractive. She kept herself slim and trim and always dressed very tastefully. But it seemed to him that her experience of marriage had left her rather tense and embittered.

Others came to talk to Pauline and Peter found himself alone in conversation with Anna. This was just as the waitress told everyone to go to their booked table and order lunch. As usual there was a bit of a rush for seats, and Peter found that he and Anna were a bit slow off the mark. He ended up sitting at the end of the table with Anna seated next to him. It looked like their conversation would last the lunchtime. They ordered lunch and more drinks. Somehow their conversation got around to Pauline having a baby at twenty eight years of age.

“I was thirty-five when Michael was born and Alice was twenty-eight,” said Peter. He was immediately aware of the age gap between himself and Anna. Twenty years…for he would fifty in three weeks time.

“Not that I look fifty,” he told himself. Plenty of gym work and jogging kept his figure more or less in trim. It didn’t hide the fact that his hair was beginning to thin, however. But compared to some others in the office, he would be a young and healthy fifty. If stresses at home didn’t wear him down, that was.

“These days, many women have first children when they are well into their thirties,” Anna was saying. “ They are much fitter and healthier  than they used to be. Once someone forty was really old.”

Peter felt pre-historic, but for a moment glimpsed a touch of desperation in Anna. He felt she saw her childbearing days ticking away…

He saw that he was twenty years older than her and felt the happiness of the occasion slip away a little. Had he married young he would be old enough to be her father. As it was he had married late and had three children, now fifteen, twelve and eight. A family young enough for him to be in his late thirties. He wondered for a moment if that was how she regarded him.

“Does age ever worry you?” Anna asked him. “ It does me. Time seems to fly by… Years go…Where to?.. I don’t know… It’s been three years since my divorce. I seem to have been marking time since then.”

Peter was taken back by the question, and nonchalantly answered, “Same problem as you… It’s when I start looking back that I can’t comprehend the passing of time.”

“How did that Carole King song ‘Going Back’ go?” said Anna. “ I think I’m going back to the things I learned so well in my youth.” She paused, then continued. “That seems a long way back. I’m not sure I’d like to be back in youth again. Too painful.”

Peter laughed, “Too true!” he said, and they each related an incident from their youthful years that had left them stranded and awkward.

Lunch duly arrived as did more drinks. The background music was a bit too loud for conversation with others at the table. Anna suddenly asked. “How are things at home?”

Peter flushed, and said, “A bit like politics… Things somehow get by from crisis to crisis.” He immediately wished he hadn’t said that.

“I can tell,” she said sadly. “You need to do something about it.” She meant it. Peter looked up at the painting of the eagle. He wondered how many relationship crises it had looked down on in the course of the year. Then a feeling if desperation set in. “Like what?” he asked.

“Just follow your heart,” she whispered, quite intimately, and grasped his hand for a moment or two. Peter was sure that everyone at the table had noticed, but no-one seemed to admit to having done so.

He looked at her and she looked back at him. The eye contact seemed to last minutes, but was probably only seconds. There was nothing that could be said.

Tags: author, garth dutton, short story

My Red Jumper – A Story

Here’s another short story which was written as homework for the Kensington & Norwood Writers Group. It’s called “My Red Jumper”.

My Red Jumper
© Garth Dutton 2007

I used to own a thick red jumper once, when I was living for two winters in London. It became a sort of ‘trade mark’ for me. I must have looked a real picture with it, plus my grey corduroy trousers and fawn desert boots. I had long blonde hair then, too, as it was the ‘hippy era’.

I used to share a large flat with an American hippy of Danish descent, two South African lads from Johannesburg, and a white lad from Zambia. The place was wall to wall beds. The flat was in Pennywern Road, just around the corner from Earls Court Station. (The area has long since been converted into hotels.)

We all used to drink at ‘Japie Corner’ in the Kings Head Pub , which was on the opposite side of Earls Court Road. On our way home we would often stop for a coffee at the “Café de Wheels” near the station. Or we would buy chestnuts from the man with the brazier there, too. (The “Café de Wheels” was similar to Adelaide’s pie carts, but mostly served coffee, tea and sandwiches.) I can still remember brushing the winter night’s snowflakes off the shoulders of my red jumper whilst waiting for my coffee.

I suppose we all have fond memories of various articles of clothing we have owned in our lives. Donovan even wrote a song called “I Love My Shirt.”

Tags: author, garth dutton, london, short story, writer, Writing

Blue Tongue Lizard – A Story

Here is a short piece I wrote as homework for the Kensington & Norwood Writers Group. It’s called “Blue Tongue Lizard”. Hope you like it.

Blue Tongue Lizard
© Garth Dutton, 2007

My garden is only a metre and a half wide and the length of my flat, yet it actually has wildlife in it.

On the 1st August I went out to my car to put on the new registration sticker and noticed a large and very sluggish blue tongue lizard coming out  of the wormwood bushes. It seemed that the day was warm and sunny enough for it to come out of hibernation for a while.

The lizard slowly crawled to a patch of the path that was darker coloured than the rest, so warmer, and flattened itself out to gain maximum sunshine on its cold body. I left it for an hour and went back outside. The lizard was still there, but had warmed up nicely and was now starting to get active.

It began rummaging through leaf litter left over from autumn, no doubt looking for its first intake of food for some time. Any insects would have done. That is what blue tongue lizards do… They semi- hibernate.

On cold cloudy days they sleep in their hiding places, but if there is some sun and the day is a warm one for winter, they’ll awake and look for a feed of slaters, earwigs or ants in leaf litter to top up their supply of vitamins to supplement their body fat reserves. In that, they are ahead of bears, who awake from the northern winter starved of vitamins.

The blue tongue lizard is right at the forefront of reptilian evolution, for they are now able to give birth to live young. So they have in fact caught up with mammals. And their young are like mallee fowl chicks. They can look after themselves from birth. Semi-hibernation means they can survive droughts and lean periods, whereas mammals often can’t, so they are much better adapted to Australian living conditions.

When I was married, my children had a baby blue tongue lizard as a pet for one winter. It was reasonably active in the warmth of the house, and particularly liked watching television. The words were obviously meaningless to it, but I’m sure it recognised the content as being mostly moving pictures of people. They are easily able to recognise one person from another.

I really like having one in my garden.

Tags: author, blue tongue lizard, garth dutton, short story, Writing

Library – A Short Story

Here is a romantic short story with a nice twist at the end of it called “Library”, I hope you like it.

Library
© Garth Dutton, 2000

Jim was busily working on the Internet at the local library, when a soft female voice said to him, “Hi! The girl behind the counter tells me you’re a poet, too.”

“Yes! “ he replied. “I do write some.” He finished the sentence he was writing and glanced up. A woman dressed in T-shirt, jeans and sandals was standing there. He thought her blonde hair looked a bit untidy, but then he remembered it was a warm, but very windy spring day outside.

“Do you write yourself?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Though I haven’t had many poems published yet. Since my divorce last year, I’ve decided to become a writer. I’m starting with poetry, but I soon hope to be writing short stories and articles as well. I also have a vague idea for a novel.”

At this point, Jim became aware of the passing of time. He’d had more incoming emails than expected today, and quite a few of them needed a reply. His hour on the computer was already half gone. But she didn’t move, and seemed to want to talk on…

“My name is Janet, by the way,” she said.

“I’m Jim,” he replied. “I’m divorced and working at becoming a writer, too. I also write songs. I have a microphone and amplifier set-up and I mostly play around the scene at folk clubs, barbeques and parties. Some are paying jobs, some aren’t, but I have to get known somehow. I do a mixture of ‘covers’ and my own material.”

“I’ve never tried writing a song,” said Janet. “I think it would be difficult, as I don’t play guitar at all. I was taught piano as a child, but that was all classical stuff and written notes.”

“Maybe you should try singing one of your own poems unaccompanied, as a beginning,” suggested Jim. “That’s how I started writing my own songs. I really like the Canadian songwriter, Joni Mitchell, as her songs sound just as great sung or recited. A pity about all the unusual tunings she uses on guitar, though. I do a few of her songs unaccompanied, as I only know standard tuning.”

He was painfully aware that his time on the computer was rapidly slipping away. There was no way now that he would get through all his remaining email replies.

Janet noticed his impatience, : Sorry,” she said, sadly. “I’m interrupting you, aren’t I?  And just when you’re very busy.”

A thought came to him that the girl behind the counter had been doing some matchmaking. He smiled at the thought, and Janet thought he was smiling at her. She smiled back. “Whoops!” he said silently to himself.

A good idea occurred to him. “I’m playing a few songs at a friend’s birthday party on Friday evening. It’s just an informal backyard show. Would you like to come along?”

“Certainly!” she replied. “And can I bring my children as well?”

Tags: author, garth dutton, Prose, short story, Writing