Friends & Other Strangers Award-winning Short Stories From Downunder

Friends & Other Strangers

Award-winning Short Stories From Downunder

Liza Perrat

Copyright © 2012 by Liza Perrat

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the email address below.

Cover design: JD Smith.

Published by Perrat Publishing.

All enquiries to info@lizaperrat.com

First printing, 2012.

ISBN E-book: 978-2-9541681-6-6

A Glimpse of Each Story

Rose-coloured Minute

Career-woman, Marianne Powell has no room for a baby in her life. The result of her pregnancy test comes as an intriguing surprise.

Signals

Bankrupt, bereft and unemployed, Edna and George are forced to leave their Nimbin home. When they meet Faith at the railway station, they realise life wasn’t so bad after all.

Window Without Glass

Cocky Australian backpacker, Cerise, meets Leyla in a poor Turkish village, who opens her eyes to life’s harsh realities.

The Fish Are Dead

Eight-year old Daniel can’t come to terms with his dad’s death.

Once Everything Gets Back To Normal

Les cannot accept that his marriage is over.

Visiting Rites

Jason ran away from home at sixteen. Years later he faces his mother again, on her deathbed.

Daughter Of Atlas

A Greek family’s struggle to settle in Australia.

Melvin’s Horse-woman

Despite himself, Melvin the loner falls in love with a flamboyant actress.

Black Or White

Cindy is married to a white Australian man, but fears her baby will be born black.

Corner Of Acacia & Beach Streets

A woman trapped in her past reveals longtime family secrets.

Forever Different

Recently laid off, Angus tries to be the perfect house-husband. He really tries.

Santa Never Made It

On Christmas day, 1974, Australians wake to the news that tropical cyclone Tracy has destroyed Darwin. But for twelve-year old Wendy, the storm has quite different consequences. Based on a true event.

Poor Cecilia

Nosey neighbour, Matilda Madigan is convinced the unruly Déo murdered his own mother.

Rose-coloured Minute

Winner Writers Bureau Annual Short Story competition 2004

I promise myself I won’t look until it’s over. After all, one minute passes quickly. I’m certain this one will last an eternity.

07.59.

Lay the test wand on a clean, even surface with the viewing windows facing upwards while you wait for the result.

Test wand. Magic wand. A flick, a destiny. So simple, like forgetting to swallow a tiny pill. Dan wasn’t bothered though.

‘I think it’s the right time, love,’ he said. But that was his opinion.

‘And one and two and three,’ I say to the marble washbasin of my office bathroom. Gold hands of my blue dial Gucci watch march around the face - a macabre waltz towards doom. I know it’s going to be positive.

A positive result may be read in one minute.

A minute. The time it takes the garbage truck to empty the bins along my exclusive harbour-front address. From the window I look down at the truck turning into the street. The collectors swing from the back to the road like agile primates, upending the bins one by one, and jumping back on as the vehicle moves forward a few metres. Drive, jump, throw. Getting rid of the unwanted.

I’m not having it.

‘And eight and nine and ten.’

I almost laugh at the incongruity of future boardroom discussions.

On the agenda today, ladies and gentlemen, we will be discussing the best brand of leak-proof nappy and highly-strung feeding bra assured to lift cow-udder breasts from knees.

A strident shriek escapes my throat.

No way, not me.

Drive, jump, throw. The garbage truck rumbles closer.

‘And fifteen and sixteen and seventeen.’

My computer emits its habitual bing. That’ll be the email about the Swedish account. I’ve been biting my fingernails over that one. Not literally of course. Gnawed nails never win professional deals.

‘Better call them straight away,’ I tell my mirror edged in theatre lights. ‘Hope they can wait forty-three seconds.’

‘And twenty and twenty-one and twenty-two.’

Gold hands of blue dial Gucci stride on as if they can’t be stopped. But I can stop them. I can do anything from my cast iron desk, with my cast iron business will. That’s what got me the nameplate on the mahogany door in the first place.

MARIANNE POWELL

EXECUTIVE FINANCIAL CONSULTANT

I still smile each time I read it. I feel taller, even more successful, the warmth coursing my veins. Drive, jump, throw. Can’t throw all that away.

‘Look at it as a new career,’ Dan said, with that crooning tone of his. ‘Your biological clock is ticking away, love.’

As if I have to do it. I tried to tell him I couldn’t.

‘You’ll get used to the idea,’ he said, then with the same smile he’d offered after my latest promotion, ‘it’ll be a nice change, you being at home when I finish work.’ The sourness that fills my mouth is not only the morning sickness.

My desk phone bleats. The answering machine kicks in.

‘Marianne? Pick up the phone, Marianne. I know you’re there, saw your car down in the car park this morning. Anyway, whatever you’re doing, drop it and get in here. We need to get this meeting over before the French arrive for the Paris project.’

No more complimentary bottles of Moët from the frogs. No champagne for nine months for that matter, even longer with the breast-feeding lark. No breastfeeding.

Don’t want it…can’t have it.

‘And twenty-four and twenty-five and twenty-six.’

Tick, tick, tick. March, march, march. Death march. My throat constricts, my head pounds. I see double now – four gold hands on blue dial Gucci. Drive, jump, throw.

‘And twenty-eight and twenty-nine and thirty.’

The truck is nearly under my window. Drive, jump, throw.

Chuck out the garbage. Get rid of it.

My eyes flick back to the neatly unfolded instruction sheet.

If two rose-coloured lines appear in the test windows, one in the test window and one in the control window, this means that H.C.G. has been detected in your urine and there is a strong possibility you are pregnant.

The phone shrieks again.

‘Mrs Powell, Mr Jefford and the financial team are waiting for you in the meeting room.’

‘And thirty-five and thirty-six and thirty-seven.’

I pay no attention to my secretary’s voice and continue reading.

If only one rose-coloured line appears in the control window and there is no line in the test window, this indicates a negative result and you are probably not pregnant.

I’m certain it’s positive.

My hysterical gasp is silent behind shiny, reflecting-glass windows. But I don’t see the blue harbour or the immaculate yachts protectively berthed within the maternal arms of the marina. I imagine myself barefoot, wearing a shapeless T-shirt, milky vomit trickling down my back. A trail of despair.

My eyes travel down and I cringe at my leggings gripping post-partum cellulite that no amount of abdominal and pelvic floor exercise will shift. I push the salmon, fuchsia and crimson suits to the back of the wardrobe. Power suits I call them, because in their tailored security I am orderly and efficient – my armour to shield me against the disorganization of a helpless, bawling bundle. Ice chips slither down my spine.

Not doing it.

‘And forty-one and forty-two