{"id":1649,"date":"2020-03-30T13:19:31","date_gmt":"2020-03-30T13:19:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/suewoolfe.com.au\/pages\/?p=1649"},"modified":"2023-09-08T23:15:10","modified_gmt":"2023-09-08T23:15:10","slug":"days-7-8-9-written-march-272829-2020","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/suewoolfe.com.au\/pages\/days-7-8-9-written-march-272829-2020\/","title":{"rendered":"Days 7, 8, 9 Written March 27,28,29 2020"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>Day 9<\/strong><\/p>\n

G is staying one more day before he goes back to the city. But that day begins in disappointment.<\/p>\n

In the fish trap that goes up and down like a blind, which would catch enough fish for even the neighbours, we catch only leaves and a long stick. Worse, again there are no mud crabs, or “muddies” as our successful neighbours call them, \u00a0in the crab pots. I\u2019m beginning to doubt that in my garden, the little green line is really spinach, for the tweezer shapes today look like the blades of ordinary couch grass, even though they are in a line, but a very wriggly one. GG labours over his fish trap, the wire box that once protected the lemon tree. He\u2019s made a fish trap once before on my insistence- sometimes I get my way – but it got crushed under the pontoon.
\n\u201cNothing\u2019s going to crush this. It\u2019s got so many brackets, it\u2019s probably overengineered\u201d, he says.
\nI ask can we put ropes on it, and use it as a trawler, towing it behind the boat?
\nI\u2019ve watched C, s professional fisherman, and a few illegal fisherpeople, trawling up the creek, their boats moving slowly, nets behind.
\nHe\u2019s horrified.
\n\u201c That\u2019d break it. And us – it’s illegal! After all this work!\u201d<\/p>\n

A few days ago I shouted from our jetty to our neighbours F and S:
\n\u201cLets have drinks one night from our jetties.”
\nF rings.
\n\u201cDrinks at 6?\u201d
\nAt 6.10 I look across to see if they\u2019ve arrived. Between us is Pink House S\u2019s beach,the longest strip of sand in the bay, that ends in front of their house. It\u2019s low tide. F has set two little caf\u00e9 tables at least 4 metres apart, not just 2 metres, along with chairs and charming little vases of flowers. I run up to the house and call to GG that drinks are really happening and to hurry, turn off dinner and serve up for K, only noticing as I do that the chicken isn\u2019t cooked. So I just serve her up vegetables. I\u2019ll run back soon and serve up the chicken. Suddenly, it doesn\u2019tseem enough for us all. So I pull out the daunting chicken wings- I’ve never cooked chicken wings- \u00a0from the box freezer, throw them unthawed into a bowl and rather than spicing them painstakingly with an assortment of spices, just douse them with half a bottle of sweet chilli sauce.<\/p>\n

Down on the beach, we sip our drinks and chat. It\u2019s a beautiful, calm, balmy evening, and in this light and with this tide, you wouldn\u2019t know it was mud flats. We could be on a beach anywhere, and it feels like a holiday.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>
\nWe talk about how to get oysters off the rocks. F and S often do it.
\n“How do you tell a bad one?” I ask.
\n“Just the smell,” says F.<\/p>\n

“Off?”<\/p>\n

“That’s all. Off”.<\/p>\n

We talk about how much we love this bay.
\n\u201cWhen I travel overseas, it\u2019s here I yearn for,\u201d I say.
\nF admits she didn\u2019t like the bay at first \u2013 she prefers open sea, and golden sand. She adds that she\u2019s just bought a house, this week, for an air BnB, in nearby Pearl Beach.
\n\u201cI\u2019d like a fire,\u201d she suddenly breaks off to say. It seems sheer joy, to decide have a fire just for the fun of it, on an almost beach all to ourselves,. Laughing like kids , we all scamper around collect and arrange sticks. She produces a lighter, but the sticks barely smoulder. I find ferns because in summer I learned how flammable they are. I spent a lot of time getting rid of them, but they always grow back. But the fire still doesn\u2019t take, so I promise firewood, run up to the house, take the chicken off the BBQ and serve it out for K, put the chicken wings on the BBS instead and add three small kumera, and grab three logs from the fireplace. But by now, the fire is roaring.
\n\u201cThe ferns did the trick\u201d, laughs F. “You were right!”
\nWhen the party\u2019s about to break up because everyone\u2019s hungry, I remember the chicken wings and run back for them, wondering how to transport them. I solve the problem by putting them in a lettuce lined plastic box and I take small plastic boxes for plates, forks for all, and stick under my arm a roll of kitchen towels for serviettes.<\/p>\n

Everyone devours them and heaps praise on my cooking, as if I\u2019d been very inventive but it was only that sauce bottle. I think they seemed delicious because of good company, sea air, and the delight of the evening. Or is that how you become a good cook?<\/p>\n

In the city, we wouldn’t have dreamed of doing this. It seems pure joy here, but there’s always the rug at the heart. What’s happening in the real world?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Day 8<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

GG texts me all the way back: \u201cLeaving now.\u201d \u201cTraffic jam\u201d. \u201cStopped at chemist\u201d. \u201cAt Bunnings: only one gas bottle allowed, so got big one.\u201d
\nI text:
\n\u201cGet spinach seedlings\u201d.
\n\u201cNo spinach\u201d.
\n\u201cWhat they got?\u201d
\n\u201cNothing. Rocket. Parsley. Chives. You want?\u201d
\n\u201cVegetables?\u201d
\n\u201cShelves empty\u201d.
\nIs everyone becoming farmers?
\n\u201cPackets of seed?\u201d
\n\u201cFound them. What you want?\u201d
\n\u201cSpinach. Carrots. Tomatoes.\u201d<\/p>\n

K is sneezing with an allergy and its true, the bedroom smells mouldy. Both of us are allergic to mould, but she\u2019s extremely allergic to dust. I tell her to sit on the deck and I methodically clean her room, pulling out the bed and vacuuming behind it, under it, behind the drawers, the cupboards. I take out a big mat, her bags. I take down her curtains with their linings and hang them in the sun. One of them slips and falls- I din\u2019dt use pegs- onto the cabin roof. I\u2019ll get it later. I\u2019m that sort of person. Enough is enough. That\u2019ll do. I\u2019ll do it later. My mother was beautiful and violent and spent her life scrubbing. Until in the middle of writing my last novel, I\u2019d never worked out that in her, those three were connected. Beauty, Violence. Scrubbing. I think because of my mother, I\u2019m very slapdash about cleaning. I\u2019m so slapdash, it embarrasses me in front of other women, but I cannot bring myself to clean. But now I must. After two hours, I still can\u2019t find where the smell comes from.
\n\u201cMaybe outside it\u2019s coming from outside\u201d, she calls from the deck, where she\u2019s gazing at the river. I\u2019m working so hard, I\u2019ve stripped down to my undies,
\nI go out the back door and walk the narrow alley between the back of the house and a terraced wall of stones that someone probably built in the depression. I often picture these families, for they built the original houses of the village. Some houses have lots of terracing, some, like ours, just a little. I imagine the houses with lots of terracing were ruled by strong matriarchs of women who demanded their men terrace the hillside for vegetable gardens. Our house didn\u2019t have such a matriarch, for this and the wall up a side path is the only stonework.
\nI find what K suspected. Just under her window, there are two cracks in the fibro, and one of them ends in a large gaping hole.
\nI text Ian, the builder who rescues our house over the years when we have money. A new bathroom instead of the old one built 40 years ago, insulation in the roof that made summer bearable, the leaks in the living room, and the marvellous, hard-working flying fox.
\n\u201cA hole in the back wall seems to be mouldy, outside K\u2019s bedroom. She\u2019s allergic to mould. Can you please help?\u201d<\/p>\n

GG arrives 3 hours later, elated. I\u2019m elated too. I run down, catch the boat and help him tie up.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

His news is that DB has cleaned the barnacles off the boat, and it now planes. We\u2019ve been asking DB for months to clean it, and it never happened.
\n\u201cDo you think it\u2019s because we\u2019ve become locals?\u201d
\nHis other news is that B will come up to cut up the fallen trees tomorrow or the next day. He says Brutus needs to go bush.\u201d
\nGG with his one arm can\u2019t cut up trees and then times I\u2019ve tried to saw, I scarcely made a dent in the wood. My artist father was a great handyman, but he always sent me away. Sawing and hammering was not for girls. At least I\u2019ve taught myself to hammer now, but I missed out on all that early boy mind. It\u2019s being here that eventually taught me the simplest things. Like, which way to turn off a tap if you can\u2019t see the stream of water. I\u2019ve asked that of my women friends in a caf\u00e9 in the city. Which way does a tap turn off? They sit miming tap turning off, and sometimes guess it wrong.<\/p>\n

We unpack the boat. He has dozens of bags. Again, it\u2019s like moving day, without the furniture. And then K points out that we shouldn\u2019t touch shopping that might\u2019ve been touched by someone else. We shouldn\u2019t touch it for five days, because the virus lasts on surfaces for five days.
\n\u201cWe should put the chicken and fish away, but nothing else.\u201d
\nWe gaze at her. Is she right? She\u2019s probably right. But what sort of world is this, that you can\u2019t put away the shopping for five days?
\nWe decide to put the shopping away anyway, and afterwards, wash our hands, singing \u201cHappy Birthday\u201d twice.
\nWe\u2019ll probably be alright.
\nI wouldn\u2019t be, in the city.<\/p>\n

Day 7<\/strong><\/p>\n

Written March 27, 2020.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

While he\u2019s in the city, I sleep in his study. I wake always about 6.45. In the precious few minutes before I must get up to make K\u2019s breakfast- she won\u2019t eat breakfast if left to herself- I gaze out the two windows that face not the sea but the bush, windows to bushland. At one window, the hill runs from the bottom window frame to the top frame and it\u2019d go beyond, if I could see through the wall, beyond a huge sandstone rock coloured orange and apricot and cream, that I used to gaze anxiously at, fearing one day it might roll onto this quaking house. Always disaster awaited me. But then I was told by old timers, old river people, that this sort of rock is known as a sinker rather than a floater, and you can trust sinkers; they\u2019re just tips of an iceberg, and my iceberg tip is sandstone orange and apricot and cream. So underneath my tip might be a vast rock. There\u2019s something that pleases me in knowing this. I remember when I lived in the desert for 18 months, I longed for the sea, and so I comforted myself by knowing that way underneath, there was a huge underground sea.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ferns and zanthorreas are everywhere to the side of my iceberg tip, and tiny lime green and grey-green plants I have no names for, though I\u2019m sure someone has, and a shy little vine with purple berries that are sweet delights though never a meal- how did the old people find enough? The path I can see from here – I\u2019ll call it a path that though it\u2019s only a track for water and the small night animals that I sometimes hear- meanders from the bottom of the window frame up the hill to the window frame\u2019s top, where there\u2019s a stand of angophora glowing gold and pink in the soft morning light. There\u2019s sweet, pungent, aniseed-tasting sarsaparilla over to the side of the path, and sometimes I pick the leaves, stuff them in the teapot and pour on boiling water. It\u2019s sheer pleasure, the plucking of the leaves, the bunching of them into the teapot, the sparkling stream of hot water. The teapot was a gift from GG long ago, with a naively-painted picture of a quaint village in front of a lake with people rowing- he gave it to me long before we ever owned this house, ever thought of it. He\u2019d laugh if he heard me say it, but did he have second sight? And then sipping the pale, sweet aromatic tea, a tea that tempts you to read poetry.<\/p>\n

Out the other window there\u2019s the lacey intricacy of the bush, more zanthorreas, and beyond, B and N\u2019s two water tanks under an almost suburban garage roof that they us for collecting rain. B and N built the house with friends, one of them a famous architect, then they realized it was too difficult to live here with their babies, so we lost them to Melbourne. They haven\u2019t lived here for ten years or so, but because we helped them out in tiny ways, easy for us, they allowed us to use their water, and that\u2019s a huge gift. Before their gift, we often ran out of water and would have to go back to the city and cower there until it rained heavily, enough to fill our tanks again. It\u2019s their generosity, their water that keeps our vegie garden going, and that will keep us going, once I become a farmer.<\/p>\n

When I\u2019m in the city this is what I crave, gazing at this meandering path with its embroidery of leaves.<\/p>\n

I can\u2019t hear K\u2019s heavy footsteps in the big house, so I linger, listening to bird calls. That one there! It\u2019s such a rich, thick sound – am I listening to one bird, or two. How could it be two, with no conductor bird standing before them, twig baton raised? Does one bird, out of its side long eye, see the other puff its chest, hear the other breath, do they sense each other\u2019s indrawn breath, do they signal \u201cnow\u201d? No, it\u2019s so perfect a unison, it must only be one bird singing.<\/p>\n

And then K slams a door upstairs, and the day begins.<\/p>\n

But in the dark of night, at 3.40 AM precisely, while sleeplessly I lie listening to Zola\u2019 Lasommiere on librivox, the reader\u2019s voice suddenly stops. Just like that. A sudden cessation. I flatten the sheets between me and my computer so I can see it. The internet lights are out. Why are they out? I listen for the murmur of the fridge, the soft chug chug as it changes motion, and all I hear is silence. The deep silence of the bush. There\u2019s a wallaby eating grass- the soft catarrhish old man sound in its throat. I swing out of bed- I\u2019m sleeping in GG\u2019s study while he\u2019s away-and, suddenly aware something has gone wrong, I run out bare-footed in the dark, and open the fridge door. No light. We have no power. What\u2019s happened? With no power, our freezer full of food for forever will go off! I grab the torch I keep in the kitchen and hold it to the little computer screen off on the side, wall that tells us how good the power is, and the power\u2019s low. Normal on a good sunny day is 12 or beyond. Now It\u2019s 11, and that\u2019s not so low. Why would it cut out at 11? It\u2019s cut out before, but at 10. 6. And slowly, forcing my sleepy brain to function, I work out that perhaps it was in the tens before everything shut down, which allowed it to bounce a little higher.<\/p>\n

I go into K and sit on her bed and wake her gently.
\n\u201cWe\u2019ve got no power,\u201d I say.
\nShe\u2019s awake immediately, a child of her father.
\n\u201cIt\u2019s easily fixed . Put on the generator.\u201d
\nSometimes she\u2019s a child, sometimes she\u2019s as old as me, or older. Are we all like that? Or is it only autistic people?
\n\u201cAt this hour? What about F and S? It\u2019ll wake them up, give them an awful fright.\u201d
\nAnd we speak of another couple whose boat arrived this afternoon. I used to be the woman\u2019s closest friend, but I’m often clumsy and stupidly offended her husband. I forgot that in a couple, \u00a0you must have a good relationship with two people. I don\u2019t know how to retrieve my mistake. When I see her on her jetty, my heart crunches. This afternoon, I tried to stop gazing at her, but my eyes had a life of their own. \u00a0We all live with many griefs, large and small.<\/p>\n

Now we both think: Her husband might storm up our stairs, might shout:\u201d How dare you!\u201d
\n\u201cHe\u2019s not the shouting type,\u201d K says.
\n\u201cHe\u2019d use the generator if his power broke down,\u201d I say.
\n\u201cYou have to do it,\u201d she says. \u201cWe can\u2019t let the food go off. If he comes up here, just say \u2013\u201c
\nShe loves acting out which she does now, arms outstretched, voice like anything out of the soap operas she loves-
\n\u201cYou want us to starve?\u201d
\nI laugh.
\n\u201cBut he\u2019d probably like that!\u201d<\/p>\n

I take heart from her and take the torch out to the deck (we\u2019ve never worked out how to install lights on the deck and often eat only by moonlight or candlelight ) where we keep the generator, and I\u2019m comforted by knowing it has plenty of petrol. GG is a dependable person, much more than me, and prides himself in keeping all systems ready to go. If we were caught short, he wouldn\u2019t be able to live with himself.<\/p>\n

My torch light startles the wallaby and it thumps away, crashing through the listening bush. Somehow this is reassuring, that nature is there , despite the world in chaos.<\/p>\n

The generator roars into life, scattering the sleep of our neighbours and the peace of stars silently floating upside down in the bay. Despite the racket, I pull out the choke, hold it for 20 seconds, push it back in and the generator roar goes up a notch, maybe two, maybe three. It\u2019s like the firing of a cannon. Fifty yards away, you couldn\u2019t have a conversation in such a din. I itch to switch it off, but I manage to control myself, leave it on and go inside and sit on K\u2019s bed.
\n\u201cYou need only keep it on for a half hour,\u201d she says, again the daughter of her father.
\n\u201cHe\u2019s done that?\u201d
\n\u201cHe told me once.\u201d
\nSo I sit anxiously on her bed, and we hold hands like lost children in a forest, watching the steps, fearing our neighbour.
\nShe repeats her previous success: \u201cAll you have to say is: do you want us to starve? \u201c
\nIt\u2019s even better the second time. We both giggle.
\nIt\u2019s a long half an hour. I keep running out to check the computer. At last the needle says that the power has climbed up to 12.1.
\n\u201cEnough\u201d, K says.
\nSo I go out to the deck and switch the generator off and the sudden silence seems as alarming as the din.
\nThe needle wavers, then settles at 11.4.
\nI call it out to K.
\n\u201cThat\u2019ll do,\u201d says K from her bed.
\n\u201cThere might be sun in the morning,\u201d I say. \u201cOr if there isn\u2019t, we\u2019ll run it again.\u201d<\/p>\n

She settles down in her bed, pulling the blanket over her head, and I go back to my bed in GG\u2019s study. I no longer need a story to fall asleep by, and I\u2019m wakened in a stream of golden sun.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Day 9 G is staying one more day before he goes back to the city. But that day begins in disappointment. In the fish trap that goes up and down like a blind, which would catch enough fish for even the neighbours, we catch only leaves and a long stick. Worse, again there are no […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[21],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1649","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-general"],"yoast_head":"\nDays 7, 8, 9 Written March 27,28,29 2020 - Sue Woolfe - author, Australia<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/suewoolfe.com.au\/pages\/days-7-8-9-written-march-272829-2020\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Days 7, 8, 9 Written March 27,28,29 2020 - Sue Woolfe - author, Australia\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Day 9 G is staying one more day before he goes back to the city. But that day begins in disappointment. In the fish trap that goes up and down like a blind, which would catch enough fish for even the neighbours, we catch only leaves and a long stick. 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