Passing Time

Passing Time
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday November 21, 2015

I arrived at the bus stop, breathless, having jogged across the park and up the grassy embankment to the highway. An elderly gent on the bench seat acknowledged me with a nod. His Labrador, sprawled at his feet, raised one eyebrow in greeting and thumped its tail lazily on the concrete.

“Excuse me,” I asked the owner. “Have I missed the 99?”

“Nothing green’s gone past since we’ve been here.”

Relieved, I sat down and remarked on his dog: “How old is he?”

“Bess? She’s nine.” He reached down to stroke a floppy ear. My bus-stop companion bore a remarkable likeness to Ernest Hemingway: a still handsome face framed by an impressive white beard, trimmed to follow a strong jawline. A navy fisherman’s cap, complete with rope braid, angled across his brow. I noticed the sharp crease in his cotton trousers and his polished brown lace-ups, one of which was wedged under Bess’ barrel chest. Only his walking stick hinted at infirmity. It was topped with a brass duck’s head, the bill worn smooth from constant handling. As we waited, he absentmindedly tapped the footpath with his stick.

“Where’re you off to then?” he said, suddenly. I wondered if he was hungry for conversation.

“I have a dentist’s check-up,” grimacing for his benefit. “Hope it’s a quick one.”

“I’ve given up on teeth,” he said with a chuckle, which turned into a wheeze, exploding into a coughing fit.

When he’d composed himself, I pointed to the duck’s head. “I’m quite taken with your walking stick. I’m supposed to convince my mum to use one – she’s getting a bit unsteady – but she won’t budge. Although I haven’t seen a fancy one like yours.”

“Bought it in London,” he said, giving the handle a twirl. “Been a beauty. Only problem is, the ferrule wears out every six months.”

“The what?”

“The rubber cap bunged on the end here. See?” He raised his stick. “Ferrule. There’s all kinds, but I like this one with the raised bumps underneath. When you’re resting your whole weight on it, it’s the difference between standing up and falling on your face!”

“Who knew walking sticks could be so technical!” I said. He chuckled again, no wheeze this time.

“Do you live near here?” I said, happy to make small talk now it was obvious we’d both missed the bus.

He pointed his stick over his shoulder. “I live three streets that way. Same house for 42 years. My wife died six months ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” I said quickly, surprised he was sharing such intimacies with a stranger. “It was a long illness,” he continued matter-of-factly. “I was relieved for her at first – she was 81 – but as the months go by, I’m realizing she was the last person I could talk to about the past. My friends are too busy with their own troubles.”

“Do you have family here?”

“One son in Sydney. The other in Albany. They’re good to me, but they got their own families. And I’m getting on for 83. Some days, I can’t imagine getting to 85, but then again, when I was 75 and first diagnosed with cancer, 80 seemed unlikely too.”

“My mum’s turning 80 next year,” I said. “She reckons she’s reached the age of invisibility.”

“Hmmf.” A thoughtful silence stretched between us. “This is the problem for old people,” he said finally. “We’re no longer involved in the main business of life: production and reproduction. I’m not sure how we’re supposed to make ourselves relevant again. But at least we can give you young ones the encouragement to keep at it.”

“Quite frankly, I worry more about losing my marbles,” I said, voicing a private fear. “Dementia runs in the family and I’m terrified it’s sneaking up on me.”

“Luck of the draw, ain’t it,” he replied. “I have problems with my lungs and a weak heart. I’m more deaf than not, but I can hear what I need to with this little gadget in my ear. I can’t see properly and my hip gives me hell, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned – it’s that you’ve gotta keep going. Nothing else for it.”

I heard the crescendo of an approaching diesel. I swivelled to see the 99 bearing down on us and leapt up to wave at the driver.

“C’mon old girl,” I said to Bess the Labrador, still flaccid on the footpath. Her owner, bracing on his stick, heaved himself up.

“She’s allowed on the bus, is she?” I asked, scrabbling for change in my pocket.

“Oh, I’m not waiting for the bus,” said my new acquaintance. “Bess and I just stopped here for a rest. We’ll head off home now. Nice talking.”

Life Cycle

Life Cycle
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday August 8, 2015

A communal laundry in a caravan park is an odd place to befriend a stranger. He was parked at one end of a plastic pew, patiently waiting for his washing to finish. I was feeding dollar coins into the wall-mounted soap dispenser, impatiently waiting to be rewarded. I snuck a glance at my laundry companion, wondering if I should ask him why the soap was on strike.

He was reading the sports pages, his newspaper propped on the barrel of his belly. A thick neck sat on a stocky body. I guessed he was pushing 70. Tattoos rode up and down his forearms. The lower half of his face was obscured by a Grizzly Adams beard, the top half with an army-green beanie. He would’ve looked fearsome if not for his ugg-boots, one of which was graffitied with a red love heart and the word ‘Pa’ by a child’s Texta.

“Any idea how this thing works?” I said, throwing him a helpless smile.
“Tried giving it a thump?”
“No,” I said, taken aback by his gruff voice. I tried to read his expression but there wasn’t much on offer between beanie and beard. He folded his newspaper and stood up. I prayed his uggs weren’t stolen.

He sized up the soap dispenser and gave it a swift thwack with the palm of his hand. A small packet of washing powder thudded into the tray.
“Hope it’s worth it,” he said with a smirk, handing me the box. I looked down and read the label: “Det-N-Ate.”
“I’d like to Det-N-Ate this,” I replied, holding up my husband’s favourite lime-green polo shirt.
He nodded.

“Where’ve you come from then?” he asked, as I upended muddy clothes into one of the washers.
“Kalgoorlie. Via Perth. We got to Esperance last night. You?”
“Driven the rig from Queensland with the missus. We’re on our way home now. Gotta be back in time for our wedding anniversary. Forty years. Feels like eighty after six months in a caravan. But here’s what I know now: Anyone who has to turn a map upside down to say ‘turn left’ should never be allowed to navigate. She’s got us lost so many times I’ve had to invent a hearing impediment in my left ear. Taken me the whole trip to perfect that.”
I snicker. “So you’re one of those grey nomads I keep reading about!”
“She is. I’m a silver fox.”
He enjoys his own joke. My washer falls into a steady rhythm with his machine, swishing and whirring in tandem.

“How’ve you gone living in such a tight space?” I ask. “We’ve only had our van for three days and we’re tripping all over each other.”
“I try to stay outside. Got all the fruit I need – a telly rigged up, my radio, Foxtel box, solar panels.”
He gestures through the laundry’s open door. A red-dusted caravan is squatting on the concrete pad in Bay 8. Under its awning a mash of cables and equipment crowd a trestle table. A satellite dish capable of signalling Mars extends from the roof.
“You could block out the sun with that thing,” I say.
“Blocks out the missus. Haven’t missed a single footy game all season.”

He stands, flips the lid of his washer and deposits a mound of wet clothes on an ironing board. I spot the leg of some Collingwood pyjamas. Crowning the pile is a large pair of floral knickers, indecently exposed.
I read aloud the sign above the dryer as he dumps his washing into the barrel. Anyone climbing into this clothes dryer will be asked to leave the campsite immediately.
My laundro-mate chuckles. He plugs two dollars into the dryer and it roars to life. With his hands on his hips, he arches his back and groans: “Crook back’s giving me hell.”
“How’d you do it?”
“Had an argument with a chopper in Vietnam.”
I’m not sure how to respond.
“Landed heavy,” he says filling my silence.
Before I can ask, he continues: “I was a medic. Got called up at 20. I was doing Ag Science. The army shunted me into pathology. One minute I’m castrating lambs, the next I’m doing post mortems on soldiers. It was a big step up.”

My washing machine wheezes to a halt. “Time’s up for you,” he says regretfully as I gather an armful of smalls. “And I was just getting started.”
“Happy anniversary,” I say, holding up a damp ball of lime-green polo. “Hope I can say the same in thirty years.”
“Only so many heartbeats in a life,” he replies. “No point wasting ‘em on the wrong fella.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve already found Mr Right.”
He flaps open his newspaper, flumps himself back on the bench and gives me a parting wink.

In the Wings

In the Wings
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday February 21, 2015

The bird-man entered our lives last Wednesday. He was parked at a small table outside our local growers market. A faded Bintang t-shirt strained against his belly. His right arm, bent at the elbow like a chicken wing, was hooked across the back of his chair. I noticed the stump of his ring finger, missing two knuckles. A long wispy white beard fanned out from his chin and tapered halfway down his chest. His nose was misshapen with a patchwork of scars where I presumed he’d had sun damage carved from the bone. Propped against the wall beside him sat a bag half-filled with empty soft drink cans.

But it was the bird attached to his shoulder that captured our interest. Its parrot-shaped head was electric-yellow, its nape and chest a fiery orange. Tucked against its small body, two long wings were splashed with turquoise. Ruffling its feathers, the bird cocked its head to inspect us and I saw a flash of bright blue tips in its tail.

And then it squawked so loudly I flinched. My youngsters startled – seven-year-old boy clapped his hands to his ears. An elderly lady, stopping to readjust her walking frame, jerked upright, scanning for the source of the noise. Failing to spot the shoulder bird, she refocused on her feet and stepped cautiously away.

My four-year-old tugged my hand and pointed at the bird. ‘Why is it wet?’ she asked me.

“He’s just had a shower,” his owner answered gruffly. My daughter inched closer to my side. The bird-man lifted a four-fingered hand to stroke his feathery epaulette.

“What sort is he?” I asked, intrigued.

“He’s a South American Sun Conure. Endangered, so they say.”

“What’s his name?” blurted my son, emboldened by our conversation.

“Sunny,” said the bird-man. “Suits him, huh?”

My boy nodded, returning a shy smile. The bird-man, encouraged, coaxed Sunny onto his finger.

“Some fella did his dough on this bird,” he continued.

“Paid 600 bucks for him, he did. And then the stupid bloke carked it six weeks later. My sister ended up with his bird. Then she got sick, so now Sunny’s living with me.”

“How old is he?” asked my boy.

“He’s five. But they say he could live to thirty.”

“Nearly as old as Mummy!” I fibbed to my small fry.

The bird-man grunted, amused.

“He’s got a big voice for a small bird!” I said as Sunny blinked at me.

“Part of his charm,” replied the bird-man, before adding quietly, “I’ve seen you before haven’t I?”

“Yeah. This is my local.”

I felt a pang of guilt. I’d failed to acknowledge this familiar stranger until he’d worn a bird.

“I come here most days to sit in the air-con,” he said. “I like watching the shoppers go by.”

He swatted at a fly and Sunny flinched, letting go another ear-grating squawk.

“Most people look straight through me. One time, this fella hands me a $20 note. Jeez! I must’ve looked rough that day! I don’t dress like a millionaire but I own my own flat.”

He chuckled and leaned forward so no passers-by would hear us.

“If people wanna pretend I’m not here, that’s fine by me. But you know what? Sunny’s changed all that. Now everyone wants to talk to me about the darn bird!”

I glanced behind me and saw small daughter had tired of our conversation. She was now helping her toy bunny scale the dividing rail between the checkouts. Her brother was still by my side, mesmerised by Sunny’s riotous plumage. I wondered why I’d never chatted to this old man before. How I could be so indifferent to such an interesting face?

“I ain’t lonely,” he said, reading my mind. “Truck driver I was – Readymix – but I gave it up at 53. They wanted me to do more and more for less and less. Now I collect cans. I walk all over the joint. Been collecting twelve years. The scrap dealer used to give me $1.60 per kilo. Now he’ll only pay 55 cents. But that’s OK. Life’s tough on him too.”

With a note of pride in his voice, he went on: “I’ve donated $7000 to charity from collecting cans. Keeps me going, searching for them.”

We paused, and I realised we’d run out of things to say. I bent down to gather my green bags. “Nice to meet you,” I said, feeling awkward at not knowing his name.

“Herb,” he offered.

We shook hands as my two youngsters bounded ahead and disappeared around the corner.

Moments later, I heard a shout. I looked back to see Herb waving daughter’s forgotten toy bunny above his head.

The kids and I haven’t stopped talking about him since.

Stranger Danger

Stranger Danger
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday July 5, 2014

I hadn’t found myself a target of public aggression since pub crawl days. I certainly wasn’t expecting a verbal stoush in the childrenswear department of Target. A week later, I’m still feeling rattled. (Why do I take things to heart?)

It was mid-afternoon and the shop floor was quiet. I was rifling through the flannelette pyjamas, searching for pink or purple ones for my 4-year-old. (She’ll only wear a two-tone palette).

Somewhere nearby, a toddler was coughing uncontrollably – a raspy bark that set my teeth on edge. In between hacks, I could hear his attempts to suck in a lungful of air, only to choke on another volley of coughs.

The sound of that child’s spluttering wormed its way into my head until it was all I could hear. Around me, shoppers stopped talking. Two women in Boyswear craned their necks trying to get a fix on the sick youngster. I could spot neither child nor carer. I could only picture a distraught toddler in a pram, his anxious mum trying to soothe him.

I rounded a rack of cardigans in Girlswear 1-7yrs. A small man with a chirpy daughter in his arms was sifting through a pile of jumpers. He acknowledged me with a smile then mimed his bottom lip thrust forward. “Poor bubba” he said, and we both nodded.

“Where’s it coming from?” I asked.

“Over there somewhere,” and he motioned towards an aisle stacked with nappies and baby food.

As we turned to look, a woman in her 60’s with a stylish silver bob rounded the corner of the aisle. She was pushing an upmarket stroller containing the distressed toddler, a blonde poppet about two.

“Poor thing, is she okay?” I said to the grandmother.

“Oh, she’s fine!”

“Sounds like croup, doesn’t it? My son used to get it as a toddler – it was awful.”

“It’s actually none of your business what she’s got! For your information, it’s just a cold. She got it from day care, all right?”

Uncertain how to react, I offered her a weak smile. At that, she gave me both barrels: “You think you’re a bloody doctor do you? Do you?”

“Um, no. I just remember that barking sound they make when they get croup.”

“Well, who the hell do you think you are? Mind your own business!”

And with that parting shot, she marched away with the still-wheezing toddler. My heart was thumping. I turned around to see the friendly dad, rigid with surprise. He shrugged and said quietly: “She sounds pretty sick to me!”

I made a beeline for the checkout, still trembly from the altercation. I handed over a pair of pj’s and was reaching for my wallet when the grandmother with the toddler arrived at the checkout next to mine.

“I’m so sick of you paranoid mothers!” she snapped at me.

I froze in fright. Shoppers swivelled in our direction. She repeated: “There’s nothing wrong with her. Got it?”

Two rows of checkout operators and their customers were agog. I tried to shrink and pretend she wasn’t addressing me. I hurriedly tapped in my pin, stuffed the pyjamas into my bag and sped outside, keen to escape my bemused audience. I scrabbled for my phone and rang a girlfriend: “I’ve just been shop-raged! Some woman just had a real go at me! I’m still shaking!”

“Oooh that happened to me once!” she replied. “I burst into tears in the middle of the shop!”

My department store stoush has dogged my thoughts. Two nights ago, I dreamt about that grandmother, replaying her diatribe in my head. I woke up still bewildered about what I’d said that set her off. Had she misread my concern as impertinence? Had I sounded judgmental?

I thought back to the last time my 7-year-old had croup. His fever spiked at 39 degrees. It was terrifying: he was disoriented and stiff, his movements jerky. I raced him to emergency and we spent a night on the ward, spooned together on a gurney while he barked himself hoarse.

Perhaps, after that trip to hospital, I did overreact in Target. Obviously that nanna resented my solicitude about her two-year-old charge. Or maybe she snapped because a stranger expressing concern made her feel negligent. Perhaps she really believed her granddaughter just had a cold.

I’m not good at dealing with hostility – a tongue-lashing like that and I fall apart. But I’m usually adept at reading strangers. I can normally pick the ones who’re open and chatty. I’ll pass over those whose body language says ‘do not disturb.’ I enjoy making small talk, but there’s a delicate balance between being friendly and appearing pushy. On this occasion, I may have poked a lioness with a stick.

Hello Stranger

Hello Stranger
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday May 18, 2013

Moving neighbourhoods is a test of my social skills. I knew the shift would be a wrench: How could we replace our favourite family across the road? Three brothers under nine who shimmy like monkeys up their wrought iron fence and hang on the crossbars yelling: “Hello! Hello! Can you come and play?”  

Our three would send back an equally ear-splitting chorus of greetings (whilst taking turns to ride the gate off its hinges). We two mothers would leave surprises at each other’s doors – a bunch of parsley, or my latest attempt at low-fat brownies. (why bother, we decided). On chaotic mornings, I could signal a mayday from the porch and she would walk my boys to school.

Two doors up, the mum of another trio of boys would share with me her recipe for lemon cupcakes and raising 12-year-olds. Her bags of hand-me downs outfitted my eldest son for years.

Further along was the Italian nonna who gushed over my babies and leant on her rake explaining to me the old ways of bottling home-made tomato sauce and how to stop basil going to seed. On weekends, the kids would flash past her on their bikes bellowing: ‘Ciao Ciao Pina!’ Or they’d call up to her as she dusted the Doric columns of her Juliette balcony: “Can we practice our scooter tricks on your driveway?” (She has a spotless expanse of concrete.)

I don’t like putting barriers around my family. They should feel safe by instinct. I want my children to have the same freedoms I had growing up in the 70’s, when we knew almost everyone in the street by name and the neighbourhood kids roamed as a motley tribe. I don’t want my children being fearful of strangers. I like it when people stop at our fence to ask my 5 year-old: “Was that your big boy’s bed arriving this morning? How’d they get it through your door?”   

We have been in our new house for four months now, and our old suburb is becoming a faded postcard. Now I need to memorise another footpath for potholes and jutting pavers that could tip up a scooter or skin the knees of a budding skateboarder.

Diagonally opposite our century-old cottage, there’s another wrought iron fence and three little faces curious to see who has moved in. I feel the throb of awkwardness and insecurity as I make the first tentative offers of friendship. But the kids hit it off and we are away! – Within a fortnight small children are madly swapping houses – and we two mums discover we have a girlfriend in common.  

I’m heartened by the elderly couple who cross the road to say to tell me: “You’ll love it here.” The neighbours on the west side say: “It’s so good to hear children in the backyard again.”

Uprooting forces me to be resilient. The kids dream up the idea of walks after tea in their pyjamas. I make a point of smiling and talking to everyone we meet. I would never have had such confidence before motherhood. But a gregarious small daughter and two excitable boys make conversation-starters easy: “Why are you wearing that funny hat?” asks my small daughter of an elderly lady sweeping her path. The lovely old dear replies: You know what? It hides my funny hair.”  

After a weekend of work at the family farm, we bring home a load of fallen apples and juicy Meyer lemons. The kids want to make the “deliveries” they enjoyed in the previous suburb. They laboriously count out a dozen Fuji’s, still with leaves attached, and add a couple of lemons to each bag. Five-year-old son proudly draws a tree dotted with red splodges and writes: “Wood you lik some fresh appels from our farm? XX from us”

We leave our surprise bags at front doors. without being spotted. Within the week we have several handwritten thank-you’s in the letter box. The kids are delighted.

There are shopkeepers to befriend too. We five become Dave the Icecream Man’s best customers. While the small ones deliberate over cups or cones, Dave and I discover we once lived in the same street.

I feel at home. The kids are settled, the neighbourhood is becoming familiar – apart from one decrepit old fella who makes two round trips past our house each day. Is he shuffling to the shops? He always returns empty-handed. No hello, just a grunt. And then one lunchtime, he takes a tumble at our gate. Blood is dripping from his papery hand. We bundle him home to number 39 in the car. Without a word, he lurches inside, leaving his startled wife to make apologies.

The next morning he stops at our gate as I’m unloading the car. He extends a bandaged right hand: “I’m Milton” he says gruffly. “Had one too many at the bowling club yesterday.”

The kids now yell out “Hi Milton!” If he hears them, he raises his hand but his eyes remain firmly on the pavement. Neighbourhoods embrace all types.