P o r t a r l i n g to n N e i g hb o u rh o o d H o us e W r i t e rs ’ Ma g a z i ne

THE P RTAL Issue No 4 November 2017

Illustration—Jenny Macauley

A N I M A L M I N E R A L V E G E TA B L E I S S U E

Copyright © 2017 - All rights reserved. The copyright of each contribution published remains with the author. Inquiries for permission to reproduce by any process should be addressed to the

Thursday Night Writing Group, Portarlington Neighbourhood House 28 Brown St Portarlington, email enquiry @portnh.org.au, phone (03)5259 2290

Editor’s Notes

Page 2

Awful Millie—Sue Jager Bambam—Sue Jager Kelpie—Sue Jager

Rinaldo—Sue Jager

Animal - a living organism that feeds on organic matter, typically having specialized sense organs and nervous system and able to respond rapidly to stimuli. Mineral - a solid inorganic substance of natural occurrence. Vegetable - of or relating to plants or plant life, especially as distinct from animal life or mineral substances. Welcome to our Animal Mineral Vegetable issue of The Portal. Most would remember Animal Mineral Vege-table as a game played in primary school or on long car trips to avoid the ‘are we there yet?’ chant. Initially, our writing group wrote only on the theme of animals, but we decided to add mineral and vegetable to the theme, to expand our exploration of the topics and provide more stories to choose from for publication in The Portal. This issue’s theme is one that effectively excludes nothing. Considerable thought went into trying to find something that would not fit the theme. Could thinking itself defy classification as animal, mineral or vegetable? After all, it’s intangible except for its consequences. However, thinking occurs as a result of elec-trical activity between neurons in the brain, so it has to fit in the animal category. What about love or hate, fear or jealousy, those abstract, largely subjective qualities we all experience? Again, these things are the manifestations of being human, of thinking and reacting to stimuli and hence could be considered as belong-ing to the animal category. So, can existence really be whittled down to three very broad classifications? Re-gardless of the answer, it’s been fun to think about this human penchant for categorising and to present to you the excellent stories and poems resulting from the theme for this edition of The Portal. Special mention must be made of Jenny Macaulay’s poem Girl sitting on a Board which was the first prize winner in the recent Surf Coast Arts Trail 2017 writing competition. Congratulations to Jenny and to Sue Ja-ger, another of our contributors to The Portal, who took out second prize in the same competition and whose prize-winning piece may yet grace the pages of this journal at a later date. So, Jenny and Sue’s work blew them away on the surf coast. The work within this issue of our magazine should have the same effect. Enjoy!

Page 3

I know you’re behind me, I know that you’re there

I know what you think, but you’re wrong.

And as your eyes stare at my bronze bodied back

At least you could pass my sarong.

While I gaze dreamily into the pond

You think I am hurting, or sad,

I’ve just left a lover or someone has died

Or some such thing equally bad.

Or maybe I’ve dropped a gold ring in the pool

And contemplate diving below,

To rummage away in the cold murky depths

Where creatures and water plants grow.

Perhaps I have failed a major exam

My future now seemingly doomed,

The cause of my woes, the result of a test –

Is something that you’ve just assumed.

But no – it is nothing so tragic or blue

It’s certainly not what you think,

It’s simply that while I sit on this board

The dishes pile up at the sink.

The beds are not made and the floors need a scrub

And dust builds up year after year,

The weeds in the garden have taken control….

That’s why I prefer to sit here.

Girl Sitting On A Board Jenny Macaulay

Inspired by a sculpture by Sue Corbet # 45 Surf Coast Arts Trail 2017

Page 4

‘Well you‘ll never credit it,’ Sue remarked. ‘They are about 70 and it’s a new romance for sure.’ ‘She seems stylish, well dressed and very Conti-nental and he is like a dog with three tails, if you know what I mean.’ Daphne laughed at the image that came to mind. It was clear that there was a lot of canoodling, handholding and other signs of de-votion that come with a brand-new relationship. So, what had preceded this new romance? Both women speculated as they sipped their coffee. Later that night, Kurt lay on his soft warm lamb’s wool rug and stretched out so that his toes were tickled by the sensual nature of the wool fibres. His pyjamas were lightly spun alpaca fleece and very

soft to the touch. He ran his hands over his torso and sighed deep-ly. These pyjamas were a gift from Joyce, his new muse and lover.

Their love of natural animal furs and fibres was just one of the many common interests they shared. He considered himself blessed. He stretched to his full length and did a few slow neck rotations. If he was to be banished to the downstairs bedroom, he may as well be warm and cosy. He looked darkly at the two dogs curled up on his Norwegian sealskin dressing gown. That was a Christmas gift from his two children and those dogs were stretched out on it, snoring without a care in the world. He would never forget the first time he clapped eyes on Joyce. He was still married at the time and to a vegan, of all things. Joyce had strolled up the stairs of the coach dressed in a leopard skin coat with dark sunglasses and racy red lipstick. Her thigh

high black boots were tanned calf skin, (Italian) and she wore matching leather gloves. She was an actu-alization of all his male fantasies rolled into one. He was totally smitten and made room for her on the seat next to him. The other travellers on the Probus bus trip to the Shrine of Remembrance were shocked and out-raged in equal measure. There were a lot of cat- bum mouths and whispers of, ‘How could he?’ and ‘His poor long-suffering sick wife.’ As for Joyce, well none of the other women spoke to her at all throughout the trip. Not to worry, he and Joyce found perfect harmony in each other’s company. His wife had been ailing for many years and had spent the last two of them in a care facility. She pre-ferred living there as his desire for animal products had become simply too revolting for her. She had made him cook meat out of doors and had refused to have any animal product blankets in their bed. It had been a frigid arrangement with only the love and warmth of the pet dogs holding them together. However, he was dutiful to the last and gave her a good send off when the end came.

Joyce was there to comfort him and they soon packed up and moved to another town. Their new home was a testament to

their tastes with Zebra skin floor rugs, animal print chairs and live stream photos of their recent safari cast to their big screen television. When they strolled down to the shops, they turned heads in their matching leather trousers and jackets. Their front door knocker was a giant lion’s head and their letterbox was in the shape of a white pointer shark. They attracted local attention all right but there was just one little fly in the ointment, so to speak.

Animals Sue Jager

Their love of natural animal furs and fibres was just one

of the many common interests they shared.

The little dogs…

were having adjustment difficulties.

Page 5

Their mutual love for each other and for all things animal was in danger of being soured. The little dogs, who had become a part of the new ar-rangement and whose relationship with Kurt pre-ceded Joyce, were having adjustment difficulties. They barked and howled when left alone down-stairs at night. Joyce preferred them to be down-stairs because they smelled. Irate and dog hating neighbours came knocking on the door, full of fury and complaint. They were unimpressed and left no doubt that this matter must be resolved or else. As a dog’s life span is greater than the span of modern relationships,

Kurt began to wonder if he should get rid of the animals. How would he rationalise this view with his much-stated devotion to all things animal? Of course, he loved them, but he loved Joyce more. He wanted to be sleeping upstairs with her in her revealing mink trimmed negligee instead of imagining a long-life downstairs with a couple of ruthless, farting, snoring dogs. What a choice, Joyce or the dogs? Funnily enough, the vegan had adored the dogs.

Illustrations—Sue Jager

Animals - Page 2

Page 6

Jack sat casually reading the newspaper at the

kitchen table and didn’t lift his head to the early morning radio news headlines in the back ground. Caroline was already up and dressed for the day ahead. A pale yellow summer dress gave a subtle hint to her figure beneath. The golden hair was neatly brushed back into a pony tail, and bright red lipstick, completed her personal stamp of fashion. Those lips were always inviting, but Jack didn’t seem to notice. He just kept on reading the paper, almost oblivious to the surrounds. Caroline could contain herself no longer. His ab-sence of any sort of communication annoyed her again to the point of frustration. She stared straight across the room at the two hands holding the out-stretched newspaper and the tip of Jack’s head. ‘Have you heard the news this morning?’ Jack lowered part of the newspaper and peered over the top. ‘No I haven’t ... I’ve been busy reading this, which is probably twenty four hours out of date. By the way, you look stunning. Love the colour.’ So, he’d noticed the new dress and approved. It was the nicest comment made for ages. She stared straight into his blue eyes and reiterated the radio headlines. ‘Well, the market has crashed in New York and Tokyo, possibly London and the European Union will follow. As for China, it’s shaky too.’ Jack quickly folded his paper. He had just finished the financial section, but this brought his attention to something far more serious. His face now turned pale with concern. ‘Shit, what a mess, We’ve had some subtle warn-ing signs. The Bourse last week looked a bit bouncy, but then again, it’s been a bit weird lately with waves of ...’ He stopped mid sentence and clenched his fists. ‘Christ, I rang Michael early yesterday and told him to sell most of the portfolio and sink three hundred and fifty thousand into Kitanga Gold Min-ing.’

The Yellow Dress Dean Reynolds

Illustration - Ruth Wachtel

Jack had heard the rumour that on recent tests, they were about to hit a reef. It was short odds and worth the risk. He’d done similar stock moves be-fore, and in doing so had made substantial profits. Now, the seriousness of this worldwide stock slump started to concern him. The radio in the kitchen gave the grim warning. It was the start of a global financial crisis. Caroline showed no emotion to the news. She had always stayed well out of Jack’s fi-nancial dealings, and at the same time had always been well provided for, but cracks in their relation-ship had appeared over the last twelve months. Gone were the romantic days of their early mar-riage some seven years ago. His fetish with her wearing bright red lipstick wasn’t of immediate im-portance. The memories of even their first dinner on the balcony of this apartment all those years ago were all but lost. His whole life now seemed con-sumed with making money, not that this was a bad idea, but she felt the distance between dollars and sex was widening. Caroline picked up her bag and shouted out from the front door. ‘Have a good day. I’m off shopping. Leave you to it.’ Jack peered out the apartment window to the road below. Caroline’s silver Merc swiftly moved down the road, and then was out of sight. ‘Shit ... Michael.’ He quickly grabbed the phone and dialed his stockbroker. ‘Michael, It’s Jack here.’ ‘Yes Jack.’ His tone was a little hesitant but confi-dent. ‘Suppose you’ve heard the news?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Jack snapped back. ‘That order I gave you yesterday, have you commissioned it yet?’ There was an air of nervous energy in Jack’s voice. Michael let a couple of seconds go past, and then was casual but careful with his answer. ‘Well sort of.’ Jack paused for a split second. ‘What do you mean, sort of ?’ Michael started to rattle on in a round-about way. ‘The market yesterday wasn’t reading too well in the morning. I sold most of your portfolio, in-fact I had to sell petty well all of it to meet your new or-der.’

Jack’s stomach sank. He felt a slight nervous tight-ness develop in his forehead. ‘Christ no.’ ‘Hang on a minute, Jack. As I’ve mentioned, the charts were falling apart yesterday, and in the light of it, I sold your stock quickly and transferred all funds into our trust account. There’s over four hun-dred thousand dollars sitting there as we speak.’ Jack’s voice almost exploded the phone into unin-telligible distortion. ‘Shit, thank Christ for that ... but what about the Kitanga buy ?’ ‘Nup, didn’t happen.’ Michael leaned back in his office chair. ‘Wanted to wait a couple of hours be-fore buying in. Besides I was out of the office for half the afternoon, and by the time I got back, the market was already in tatters.’ Blood began rushing back into Jack’s head as he sank back into the couch. ‘You little ripper. Can’t thank you enough. I owe you lunch.’ Michael hung up the phone. How could he tell Jack that half the afternoon yesterday was spent back at his bachelor apartment, shacked up with Caroline. That was out of the question. He felt a tinge of remorse, or was it regret. No, on second thought, somehow, and unknowingly, Caroline had saved her husband from financial ruin, but at a cost. A silver Mercedes pulled up at the front door of a smart downtown apartment building as it had done many times before. An attractive lady in a yellow dress quickly ran up through the foyer and then took the lift to the seventeenth floor. The entrance ahead was familiar, and she slipped a neatly folded note under the door. The words were brief. The affair couldn’t continue as she really had feelings for her Jack. It wasn’t signed. Just a carefully placed red lipstick outline of her lips.

The Yellow Dress - Page 2

Page 7

Page 8

Vegetable Eileen Jenkins

‘Sprouts OK with dinner?’ ‘Yeah...but not boiled.’ ‘I’d never dream of boiling them... too bitter, too green, and altogether too...’ ‘Christmassy?’ ‘Yeah.’ Rob placed the quartered sprouts into a bowl with garlic salt, a splash of soy sauce and a little ol-ive oil.He swished them round and then tossed them into a frying pan where they sizzled while their outer skins browned. After tasting them, (Rob always tasted his cooking to see what was lacking) he added a pinch of something from a little spice packet. It was his secret ingredient...something to surprise her, something to make her taste buds cry out for more. He thought Linda a poor cook who didn’t have the patience to turn a meal into some-thing special...not like himself...an artist in the kitch-en. The aromas from the pan began to pervade the house, making Linda’s mouth water. It was their 50th anniversary and he’d wanted to take her out, but these days she preferred to stay in and let him surprise her. He glanced through to the dining area. The roses at the end of the table looked luxuriously rich, as their deep red petals contrasted with the white damask cloth and napkins. He’d got out the silver cutlery and the German porcelain dinner ser-vice used only on special occasions. Candles flick-ered romantically, reflecting in the crystal wine glasses, creating an oasis of warmth around the ta-ble. ‘Nearly ready!’ he called to her. ‘Like to pour the wine?’ ‘What are we having?' she asked as she put down her IPad and slowly rose from the sofa with her kaftan billowing behind her. ‘I thought we’d start with the Champagne,’ called Rob suddenly seeing her as an oversized galleon about to capsize as she swayed across the room. Linda brought the bottle to him to uncork as she was no expert at this, although, he thought, she was not so bad at drinking the stuff, expensive as it was.

‘Is this the cheap brand?’ she asked squinting at the label. ‘No, only the best for tonight,’ he said, remem-bering how his trip to Dan Murphy’s and Aldi had deprived him of his morning session with the boys at cookery club. Eating their soup in silence they listened as the music-centre softly played Dinah Washington sing-ing ‘What a Difference a Day Makes’. Their well-mannered dog, Prince, waited patiently on his bed in the kitchen for his dinner. ‘Ready for the piece de resistance?’ Rob asked, rising to remove their soup bowls. Linda nodded, wiping her mouth with its deep red lipstick onto the pristine napkin he’d taken pains to starch and iron earlier. He gently placed the main dishes in the cen-tre of the table and offered to serve. ‘Not too much for me,’ she said as he heaped her usual portions onto her plate. ‘Special date, bigger plate,’ he quipped and she giggled. They sat and ate as the music- centre slow-ly clicked over to their dinner party special - ‘Music to Die For.’ ‘You’re not eating much,’ she said as she swal-lowed sprouts and carrots heaped on her fork. ‘Cooking does that I’m afraid,’ said Rob. ‘Would you like more vegetables?’ She nodded as he spooned more sprouts onto her plate with another slice of roast beef. She wiped her forehead with her napkin as the room grew hotter. ‘Dessert?’ he asked reaching for her empty plate. ‘No... No, I’m not feeling too good...think I’ve eaten too much.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘Better go and lie down then... I’ll clear up,’ said Rob sympathetically as he collected the dishes and made for the Kitchen. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give the left overs to Prince,’ he said as he emptied them into the food disposal unit. At the mention of his name Prince’s ears pricked up. He was delighted to see that he was getting roast beef without those awful greens they usually mashed in with his dinner.

The garden tended,

he sat to gaze at its splendour.

The rows perhaps not so neat

as those back home in England

but still colourful,

their hues screaming against

the backdrop of

Van Diemen's Land,

with its muted tones and mad monotony,

the graceless, scrubby bush.

But here, clipped and cultivated before him

lay perfumed blooms

softening harsh southern light,

easing its burden.

And then the house,

a boulder against the shock of

summer’s ravenous heat

winter’s ice.

All his work before him,

and still an alien.

Page 9

A view of the artist’s house and garden, in Mills Plains, Van Dieman’s Land, 1835, by John Glover, (1767—1849, English born Australian artist during the early colonial period of Australian Art)

John Glover’s Garden Ruth Wachtel

I wake at dawn to the sound of kookaburras, pretending mirth.

Misleading cool air on my face, I approach the day,

Wondering when the heat, breathed through the cracking earth

Will begin to curl its fingers round me, as, on its way,

It carries the sun to the apex of my scorched vision,

And beats the saddened bush, and me, into submission.

But now, toes exploring the soft sand, I farewell the retreating dark

And am glad to see the rising sun and walk beneath the eucalypts,

Inhaling their menthol scent and tracing the scribbly gum bark;

Between layers, finding the moth pupae in their wooden crypts.

Defying the still somnambulant day, I stroke the smooth trunks with my hand

And find solace in their living presence in such an unforgiving land.

On the horizon, the early pink and grey haze matches the demanding galahs

That screech their way across the sky, hunting in packs to devour the scarce seed

Of grass or grain before another living creature. They descend from afar

In hordes. Silent sheep shudder at the noise but try not to heed

These harridans, instead, mouthing at the wild sorrel

That grows along the long paddock, and broking no quarrel.

Diane Kolomeitz

Morning Walk

Page 10

Page 11

That ‘long paddock’, the quiet achiever, saviour of drover and beast,

Winds through the Australian bush uninvited but wherever it finds a road

Or dirt track, the gathered moisture is host to vegetation that provides a feast

Of headstrong plants that only the dust and wind have sowed.

I rub my feet on the tufting weeds and stain them a squeamish green.

Determined too, I follow the trail in the early dew, treading where wallabies have been.

The comforting smell of wood fire wafts through my nostrils and fills my head,

With memories of early mornings, chill awakenings, all things past ...

Watching for brown snakes sleeping in the woodpile, their menace unsaid

But always there, as I race them to gather split wood for the stove’s blast.

And then, the reward of defrosting, on the open oven door, my frozen feet,

While eating toast and dripping syrup, giving thanks for the ironbark’ s heat.

I remember now to look for snakes, curling in the dust on their way to a sunny place,

I have seen their swirling paths imprinted in the early light, like footprints of the dead,

And I add my own mark, showing strength in dragging a stick across the dusty interface

Of an Eden where I, like Eve, walk unencumbered by the pressures of the day ahead.

The sky is blue now, without a cloud, only marred by the faint darkness of a hovering hawk

High above the Australian bush, watching me swinging a mulga stick along my morning walk.

Morning Walk – Page 2

Page 12

Ben and Tom were old school buddies. They grew up together and were inseparable during their adoles-

cence. Ben married his high school sweetheart and Tom, being the charmer, remained single and played the field. Ben was having marital problems and needed time away to evaluate the situation. He decided to go pro-specting for opals in the outback and asked Tom to join him. Early in the trip Ben vented about his wife, Julie, telling Tom many intimate details about his marital woes. Tom listened but never took sides. To Ben, he was the best mate ever. On the last day of the trip Tom found a large opal. He told his mate he would have it made up in a necklace for his step mother. When Ben returned home, things had not improved. He and Julie went through the motions of married life, unsure where to go from there. A few weeks later Julie was going out on her weekly outings with girl-friends. Ben noticed, to his dismay, that she was wearing a lovely new necklace that held the opal that had been mined by his best mate, Tom. Ben’s questions were suddenly answered; Julie’s weekends away with girlfriends, new outfits the list went on. Ben felt so upset that he packed his bags and left a note for Julie which stated that he now knew the truth about Tom. He left his wedding ring on the letter and drove to Tom’s step mother’s house. She had always been a very big comfort to him over the years. Sadly, she had no opal necklace to admire.

The Opal Necklace

Daphne Reeves

Image—https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Opal_doublet.jpg

Page 13

He smiled as he swung his leg high over the seat and settled his leather clad body on to the soft seat. ‘God I love this bike, ’ he thought, ‘It’s so smooth, the chrome so shiny. I am so lucky to own her.’ He cast his mind back over the years of bike own-ership and chuckled quietly to himself. He patted the black petrol tank with a gloved hand.’ We’ve come a long way baby, since my first ride.’ His first bike had been at 17 years of age and was a tiny engine on two wheels to get him to his appren-tice job. No public transport in that little country town, so the bike was a cheap option while he saved for a car. He loved that tiny red terror and tore around everywhere at top speed, which wasn’t very fast at all. At least he burned off the moped riders down-town on a Saturday night. Of course, more power soon seemed important, so he borrowed money to buy a new high speed, but still moderately powered, (comparatively) black speedster. Trips to the big smoke on weekends be-came the next thing, and he raced through the hot afternoons and foggy mornings between his mates’ places and home. Some of his mates had bigger, even faster bikes. Some even raced them or just tried to outwit the police on Saturday nights by taking off like madmen in the dark streets of the city. There were inevitably accidents, some worse than others, with both bike and rider in various states of disrepair. One mate even died, ironically, at the big bend in the road past the old cemetery. His mum handed over her son’s leather jacket to him and he wore it for years until he could afford a more upmarket replace-ment.

Life carried on with a home and family and mo-torbikes were replaced for a few years by the work ute and the family sedan. Eventually though, he just had to have a bike again. He met a new lady who loved the thrill of the fast ride as she clung to his jacket and screamed ’Faster, faster!’ in his ears. A rumour is they even made love beside the bike on the aforementioned jacket. Those were the days! A long time desire to own a sidecar became a reality. They bought a slim shiny old style sidecar and attached it to the current monster bike. They felt like kings as they and their little dog toured up and down the country with camping gear strapped on the bike and spare undies in the saddle bags. They had lots of great trips, some wet, some hot, and camped all over the east coast of Australia. They enjoyed breakfast with goannas, climbed mountains and even got sunburnt to toast. Those trips were amazing adventures. Old age finally crept up on them both and they decided, sadly, to hang up the worn old riding boots. Their young son became bike mad and talked of what big monster he could afford to get between his legs. It was scary to see him take off with so much power available with the twist of his hand, but his parents hoped they had taught him well enough to be safe. The old fella putters around now on weekends on a beautiful bike suitable for his age. As they say in the bike world, ‘Have fun, but make sure you keep the black stuff on the road.’

Mineral Jennifer Thomas Ball

Wireframe Motorcycle Sidecar Artist Shi Jindian http://www.crookedbrains.net/2011/05/creative-wireframe-models.html

Denise’s extremely rare blood type had not been an issue to her apart from occasional hospital visits to update her private store with the blood bank in case she required a transfusion at any time. Her general health, however, had been good and she’d never, to this point, had to utilise any of her store. Denise was a vocal and strong-willed member of the local garden club and when the committee offered her the position of managing the produce section at the annual agricultural show, she accept-ed with glee and got straight down to drawing a map of the hall and planning where all of the exhib-its would be arranged. She did not appear to notice the lack of enthusiasm of others to assist, but eventually had a group of three who would help as required.

When Gloria and the two other members arrived at the hall early on the day of the show, as request-ed, the hall was already set up. Sheets of paper cov-ered the tables and each had been ruled with squares inside which were written the entry codes for each exhibit. The exhibits were due in at 8am. The judging was to take place at 9am and the doors were to open to the public at 10am. Already, exhibitors were lining up at the door and when Gloria went to open it, Denise yelled across the room and pointed at the clock. It was 7:57. When the doors were unlocked three minutes lat-er, exhibitors swarmed in and began looking for their assigned squares as they had done in previous years. Denise’s voice could be heard over the

The Aggy Show Jenny Macaulay

Page 14

Illustration—Jenny Macauley

crowd giving orders and telling people to move out-side as soon as their entries were checked in. As the crowd died down, a family entered, the mother pushing the youngest of her three children in a wheelchair. Each child held a plate with a creature on it created out of vegetables. ‘You’re late,’ said Denise. ‘What’s the surname?’ ‘I’m sorry,’ said the man. ‘Fergusson. Vicky, Ste-ven and Jeremy.’ Denise looked at her clipboard. ‘There, there and over there,’ she indicated with her pen then squint-ed her eyes to look more closely at Jeremy’s entry which was balanced on his dreadfully thin thighs. ‘That doesn’t look like just the child’s work. I’ll speak to the judges. Might be disqualified.’ Jeremy’s mother squeezed his shoulder as his chin began to quiver. ‘I can assure you, it is all his own work,’ she replied. ‘Place them and leave the hall, please. We can’t start the judging with you still here.’ Denise and her helpers wandered around looking at the exhibits while two judges scrutinised tables of homemade scones, sponges, preserves and clus-ters of home grown vegetables that lay in wait for at least an honourable mention. While one was judging the children’s vegetable creature section, Gloria watched Denise hover close behind making various suggestions until the judge politely asked her to step back. Denise pouted then stood still, as if mesmerised. There was a spider made from half a cantaloupe with beans extending from its sides as legs and two grapes for eyes attached with tooth-picks. Two menacing looking fangs made from man-darin segments lay at the front. A long, thin sweet potato was supported by many matchsticks and posed as a centipede. The whole table was a mass of weird creations and as Gloria approached she sensed how much the children would have enjoyed making them. ‘Aren’t they just beautiful?’ she said to Denise. Denise didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on one of the exhibits next to which was a certificate for second prize with Jeremy Fergusson’s name on it. ‘Bloody ugly looking thing,’ she finally said as she continued to stare at it. The pea eyes stared back. The large carrot stood upright on its base and the eyes were attached about half way up. Celery arms reached out towards Denise and Gloria saw her

shudder. It had no nose, just a strip of red capsicum for a mouth, which, as it began to dry, was twisting into a sarcastic smile. Wisps of fennel leaves were tied onto the top of the carrot as hair and rose up-ward then wilted down like a bright green fountain. The doors opened and there was the usual rush of people, many of whom were the exhibitors wanting to see how they had fared in the judging. Gloria’s job was to make sure the exhibits weren’t touched. Throughout the day visitors came in be-tween the other show events, some wearing jodh-purs, some carrying huge pink clouds of fairy floss and others just to get out of the heat of the day. By late morning some of the flower and herb exhibits were showing signs of stress and the helpers did what they could to freshen them with a fine water spray. As Gloria wandered around chatting to the public she became very aware of Denise’s obsession with Jeremy’s carrot creature. Denise returned to it fre-quently and each time she did, her own facial fea-tures appeared to wither along with those of the vegetable. As the capsicum mouth curled gro-tesquely in the heat, so did Denise’s. As the pea eyes lost their lustre, Denise’s eyes became dull and glazed. The celery arms became limp and Den-ise’s shoulders slumped as if with fatigue and ex-haustion. ‘Are you okay?’ Gloria asked but before Denise could reply, she slumped to the floor. The crowd eventually moved back allowing the St Johns offic-ers through. An ambulance was then called. By 5pm the showgrounds were almost cleared. Marquees and children’s rides were dismantled, hay bales were stacked and rubbish collected. Glo-ria and the other helpers cleared and rearranged the tables and swept the hall. The only exhibits that hadn’t been picked up were those belonging to the Fergusson children. A week earlier, Jeremy’s specialist had applied for the use of some particularly rare blood until such time as the boy was strong enough to build up a blood bank store of his own. That request had been denied. Jeremy never saw his certificate for second prize.

Page 15

The Aggy Show - Page 2

Geraldine Green loved Sundays. She always woke before the alarm and lay in bed for a moment in anticipation of the day to come. She loved the dark-ness of the pre dawn, the cool and quiet, then the magpies carolling with the first rays of light. Choos-ing a hand knitted jumper from the selection she had bought from one of the other stallholders, she pulled on jeans and long boots. Topping it off with a beany pulled down over her short cropped grey

hair, she loaded up the station wagon and set off to the local market with her home grown organic vegetables. For nearly ten

years she had been going to the market every Sun-day. She began her weekly odyssey a few years after shifting to the small country town and leaving her old life behind. She often mused how different life was now to what it had been in the big city and how she had morphed into some sort of dual per-sonality from her old city self. Circumstances had forced the move and although taking a while to relax, she had slowly embraced the laid-back country life. Seeking a way to fill the now empty days and not wanting to be too obvi-ously new in town, she had taken up growing vege-tables. It was a hobby that required the physical activity she needed to keep fit and trim, and could be carried out in the privacy of her backyard. After a few years of seclusion and acquiring a certain confidence, she started to venture out a bit more and discovered the local trash and treasure market.

As the constraints of living a confined life began to chafe and develop a ‘what the hell’ attitude, she toyed with the idea of setting up a market stall. She had so much produce that even giving it to the neighbours hadn’t depleted her stocks, and a stall was the ideal way of getting out and having a bit of social life without actually making close friends. Twelve years of peace, civility and happiness fol-lowed, but Geraldine’s small world was about to change dramatically! Arriving early in the dawning gloom on the last Sunday of the month, she was shocked to find an-other vegetable stall set up next to her space. A tall thin woman with dark red hair scraped back in a po-nytail was setting out her produce. A hastily scrib-bled sign read ‘organic vegetables’. Geraldine recovered her equilibrium and wan-dered over. ‘Hello, I’m Geraldine’ she said, extend-ing her hand to shake. The other woman looked slowly down at the proffered hand, then up at Ger-aldine’s face with the coldest, most calculating eyes she had seen in a long while. ‘I’m Moira,’ the newcomer stated, with not a trace of warmth in her voice . ‘Guess we’re going to be neighbours!’ It didn’t seem a very good start, but Geraldine wasn’t too worried. Her quality produce always spoke for itself and she had an established clientele. A little competition never hurt anyone she thought. However, Moira didn’t seem to be very interested in the customers and tourists wandering around as she had a fairly continual parade of people coming and buying her bell peppers. After a while Geraldine started to register how perfect these were, with no

Operation Ratatouille

Beryl Stott

She often mused how

different life was now to what it had been

in the big city ...

Page 16

odd shapes or blemishes on the skin. She began to suspect Moira’s vegetables weren’t really organic after all. What to do about it was another matter. Finding out more started to become an obses-sion. She would turn various scenarios over in her mind. Maybe she would actually confront Murky Moira, (as she had started to think about her) at the market. No, she realised Moira would only laugh at her and deny it. It got to the point where she couldn’t leave her suspicious thoughts alone and felt compelled to take action. Finally she actually started planning some reconnaissance . She pulled everything out from the closet under the stairs. Right at the back she found what she was looking for; the night vision goggles she couldn’t bear to part with when she left the force. They were extremely new at the time and marvelled at by the whole Department. Of course, she was supposed to book them back in along with her gun and badge, but as a ‘going away’ present, John, in stores, had written them up as ‘missing in action’. She turned them over in her hands as memories of the last time she used them came flooding back.

Gerry, as she was known then, had been a hi-level Fed-eral Police op-erative. A well earned promo-tion had seen

her in charge of her own Task Force instigating Op-eration Coca Cola. They had been tracking illegal importations of cocaine by an international drug

syndicate. The final bust had gone horribly wrong, ending with her shooting dead the head of the syndicate whilst trying to protect a fellow officer who had been shot. The drug dealer’s partner had then put a contract out on her to stop her testify-ing, so she had been secreted away into the wit-ness protection programme. She pushed aside thoughts of a life long gone and decided to put in place an operation of her own, Operation Ratatouille. She would go over to Murky Moira’s house and see what she could find out about these organically grown vegetables. Once over the back fence she pulled on her night goggles and adjusted the infrared. Crouch-ing down she spied what she was looking for in the far corner of the big property. The hothouse was much more extensive than she expected and looked like Moira was farming commercial quanti-ties. Holding her breath she quietly prized open the steel framed door, and slipped inside. Her plan was to search around for half empty bags of synthetic fertilizer and commercial pesticides, but the scene in front of her brought her to a stand-still. A sickly herbal smell hovered over a massive crop of full grown marihuana plants. On a potting table were trays of red and green bell peppers, all in the process of being stuffed with marihuana. Gerry pulled out her mobile phone and dialled a number. No need to worry about Murky Moira now, she thought!

Page 17

She pushed aside thoughts

of a life long gone and decided \to put in place an

operation of her own...

Operation Ratatouille - Page 2

While chatting over coffee recently, my friend and I reminisced about the days when we would go rab-bit hunting. We were teenagers who worked all week and often Saturday mornings too, so a trip out of town to chase rabbits on a Saturday arvo was lots of fun. We needed three or four mates to make a serious hunting team, especially if we found a big burrow with lots of exits. Driving out of Bendigo towards the surrounding granite hills we searched for a spot where lots of rabbits could be seen grazing. I don’t remember if we went onto farms or crown land, but we never got any grief from anyone on our hunts. We always left the place as we found it, especially gates, and never interfered with stock or equipment. Back in those days rabbits were prolific. It was a time before the disease myxomatosis was intro-duced to Australian rabbits, so many burrows were huge in size containing lots of rabbits. We would climb the hills at our chosen site with a bag of nets, a bag for the catch, a small shovel and a box with two or three ferrets. Some people may not have met any ferrets in their lifetime. In those days lots of young fellas would have a cage of them in mum’s back yard. The ferret is a long slinky creature with a sharp face, creamy fur and sharp claws. If their cage is not cleaned regularly they tend to be quite smelly. We liked our particular ferrets because they were efficient hunters. After selecting a busy bur-row with six or seven exits and signs of current oc-cupation, (droppings and scratched areas) we would then peg out as many exit holes as we could. This entailed spreading the little rounded nets over the burrow entrance and pegging it in place with tent pegs so an escaping rabbit would not run off. That done we would strategically place ourselves around the pegged area, then insert the ferrets into the burrow. Working ferrets would usually go straight to the hidden bunnies but a lazy ferret might catch its first bunny and settle down in the burrow to eat it.

We would crouch down and listen for the thump, thump of running rabbits. When they emerged all at once we’d scramble to grab them. Someone, never me, would then break the rabbits’ neck. When the burrow was empty we would gut and skin the catch. If we had caught a lot, we could leave the skins on and take them to the local pub to sell to one of the drinkers who would take a pair of bun-nies home to his lucky wife. Otherwise we got mum to cook them for us as we all enjoyed her rabbit stew. Lastly, we had to retrieve our ferrets. That is why we brought the shovel, as some ferrets were too busy eating to come out of the burrows. So often this entailed a lot of unhappy digging. We sometimes went after rabbits with a shotgun, but this tended to fill the meat with pellets so not so good for eating. We now look back with horror on these expedi-tions of our youth. I would not be part of it now. I remember the skun bunnies looking like little naked babies. Myxy, then the calicivirus put an end to rab-bit hunting. Sadly, many families supplemented their meat ration with bunnies back then. Now we are so spoilt for choice we can choose gourmet rab-bit or quail or some such poor creature for our din-ner. I prefer a more vegetarian life although I do admire my sons’ Akubra hat. Fortunately, it is made of bunny fur, not skin or meat. How things have changed over my lifetime for me and also others, not least the rabbits. Good luck to the bunnies I say.

Rabbit Huntin’

Jennifer Thomas Ball

Page 18

Illustration—The Boy Travellers in Australasia , T W Knox 1887

Illustrations—https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals - Charles Darwin 1872 ‘Horror and Agony’ from a photograph by Guillame Duchenne de Bologne, ‘Head of a Snarling Dog’

Page 19

‘You’re an animal.’ ‘What!’ ‘You heard me. You’re an animal.’ ‘Whaddya mean?’ ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’ ‘Well we’re all animals y’ know.’ ‘Don’t be such a smartarse. You know what I mean. You’re an animal. I saw you groping that girl at the pub door last night, grabbing her from behind and pushing yourself up against her.’ ‘She was askin’ for it.’ ‘What! She was just trying to leave the building. Why would she want a creep like you coming any-where near her? You were drunk and you just thought you’d feel her up. You’re an animal.’ ‘Well, you…’ ‘You need to show some respect. You’re lucky the cops weren’t called. You probably can’t even re-member you were so drunk. Get a grip. And while we’re at it you can get your flamin’ dog off the chain more often than you do. Bloody thing’s barking mad. You need to walk it twice a day. Now get out there and get moving with that dog of yours’ ‘Dog’s got a name ya’ know. It’s called Rufus.’ ‘I don’t care what it’s called mate, just get out there and get it off the chain.’ Despite his raging hangover and the indignity and humiliation of being roundly chastised for some-thing he barely remembered doing, Rufus’s master proceeded through the kitchen towards the back-door. He turned before he reached it and went to

the sink for a glass of water with which to swallow the paracetamol pills he’d been clutching since he rolled out of bed. Now he would do as he was told and walk his dog. He had no option. Of course his mate was right, not just about the previous night’s events, but also about Rufus. As he walked towards the dog he could see it straining and thrashing against its chain. He wasn’t really sure why he’d got the dog in the first place. Someone had said it might be a good idea to help protect the crop. Anyway, there was Rufus, barking and growl-ing, baring his teeth at him. He realised he hadn’t tended the dog for what seemed like days. Some-one else had been feeding him surely. He spoke to the dog as he tried to hook the leash’s clasp into the collar. ‘Hey Rufus buddy. Walk time.’ The dog, re-fused to be still. He lurched and bristled and snarled. His master had his hand near the dog’s col-lar and feared being bitten by this unruly, aggressive creature. He yelled at it, and went to kick it in the side when suddenly, the dog latched onto his wrist. He felt the searing pain of teeth in his flesh. The dog shook his captor and pulled back on his wrist and arm wrenching him almost to the ground. He could feel the massive strength of this angry dog. He screamed. Rufus abruptly let go, and, liberated, cat-apulted down the driveway away from his prison. He ran and ran and ran.

Animal

Ruth Wachtel

The Portal is compiled and published by the Thursday Night Writing Group at Portarlington Neighbourhood House 28 Brown St Portarlington, email enquiry @portnh.org.au, phone 5259 2290, www.portnh.org.au

Views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those of the publishers or Portarlington Neighbourhood House. The Portal can be accessed online at www.portnh.org.au Click on Creative Arts.

THE P RTAL P o r t a r l i n g t o n N e i g h b o u r h o o d H o u s e W r i t e r s ’ M a g a z i n e

No more to feel your silken head beneath my palm

Or meet that steadfast gaze inviting action.

Gone is the swirling of your tail

And ears cocked, demanding my reaction.

No more to feel your nose nudge for attention

That noble, elongated sniffer of all smells,

Or have your paw tap softly seeking cuddles,

And walks along the beach to look for shells.

You’re gone my darling shadow, friend and guardian

No more to shield me from the cold.

No more to walk ‘neath shady pines in summer.

No more...no more your handsome head to hold.

Harry Eileen Jenkins

Painting—Eileen Jenkins