Beryl Fletcher

Fifth Week: 29^th November to 5^th December 2008

 

A busy week. Many phone calls from members of my extended family organising the holidays. I am staying put in spite of the warm weather, the time when New Zealand people head to the beach. My ancestors on my father’s side arrived here in 1840 and spent their Christmas days acting out the customs that they brought down from England. One would think that this practice is long gone. But no. Christmas down under is still linked to the images of snow and sledges and reindeer. This is reflected in the tree decorations and in Christmas cards and the wrapping paper. Then there’s the heavy food. We celebrate Christmas in the heat of mid-day, and resolutely chew our way through baked Christmas dinners and lumpy steamed puddings drowned in hot yellow custard and we drink sweet sherry and eat nasty little mince pies and then collapse into a coma or have a heart attack.

 

I remember trying to explain this phenomenon of misplaced cultural practice to a group of German writers in a seminar that I ran in Berlin four years ago. They fell about laughing when I told them that in New Zealand some people buy spray cans of fake snow to write Happy Christmas on their front windows.  

 

Just over a month has passed since I began to write this blog and I have re-discovered the wonderful effect of a deadline. I made a commitment to myself to post the next episode of my novella each Friday and this stops me falling into the “I’ll do some writing after I’ve done everything else first” syndrome. Another good thing is that I can get out of taking responsibility for some of the grosser aspects of Christmas by pleading time constraints.

 

I am searching for a title for Hannalore’s story. Although it will make little sense to my readers so far, I had thought of calling it The Black Stones of Hannalore. Early days yet. But any suggestions would be welcome. At this stage, I am almost sure that this novella will be the first of three set in the same landscape and with a time frame of over one hundred years. A journey from a raupo hut to cyberspace and Google Earth.

 

A highlight of the past week was the book launch of Hamilton writer Stephanie Hills’s first novel Argenta. (Scholastic, Auckland: 2008). Stephanie is a long time member of a writing group that I have been associated with for over ten years. We meet once a month and discuss current individual projects that we are involved in and generally discuss the act and art of writing in all its manifestations. We are all currently involved with writing projects and have all been published in one form or another.  This group works well for several reasons; there is no obligation to bring any work to be discussed. One can sit and listen month after month if that is what the writer needs at the time. Work is brought to the group to identify problems as outlined by the writer. For example, at our final meeting for the year, one of the writers brought a few pages of the novel she is working on for the group to critique. She was having a problem moving between the present and the past tense when using the first person pronoun (the ‘I’ voice) as the story teller. A lively debate ensued about the problems of moving from one tense to another and the different ‘voice’ that comes with each tense.

 

There are many of these informal writing groups around the country now. They serve a useful purpose in providing a place in the community where writers can gain experience from others and learn how to edit their own work. Anyone reading this who feels isolated as a writer should perhaps think about forming a group. An ideal number would be between six and eight members. And try to have writers from different genres if possible. Our group covers poetry, junior fiction, novels, short stories, memoir, film scripts and (last but not least) a horticultural writer specialising in roses.

 

Now back to the story of Hannalore. In the last episode, Hannalore was sentenced to a form of punishment sometimes referred to as ‘social death’. In today’s episode, Hannalore is released early due to the deterioration in Juno’s behaviour. Sarah gives Hannalore some disturbing news. Now read on…

 

Part Five:  

 

Six days before Hannalore’s period of interment was due to finish, Sarah came early with the plate of bread and honey. She looked exhausted. Her headscarf was loosely tied allowing strands of wispy grey hair to fall about her furrowed face and neck. She brought the news that Hannalore was to be released at once. She had held a meeting with the other women last night about Juno and this morning, the elders had given Hannalore permission to resume her normal life.

 

‘Is Juno ill?’

‘She has not spoken a word since you were sentenced. All she does is sit and rock and yesterday she began to bang her head against the kitchen door.’

‘I must go to her.’

‘Eat first, that was the instruction.’

 

Hannalore bolted down her bread. She barely noticed the cup of tea that Sarah had brought for her. She poured some water from her jug into the washbowl and threw handfuls of cold water over her face. She went to her shelf and unfolded her clothes and dressed with haste; woollen leggings, cotton camisole, long skirt, blouse, calico coverall.  

 

‘I tried to stop her,’ said Sarah, ‘but she would not listen to me.’

‘It only makes things worse to argue with her, you know that.’

 

Sarah’s face crumpled. Hannalore felt a moment of compassion for her. When Sarah had lost her son Harry two years ago in the influenza epidemic she had turned almost overnight into a frail old woman. Her flesh seemed to melt away and her bones became clearly visible beneath her skin. She had fallen back into the interior of her body as if she no longer had a right to live there.

 

Hannalore was not able to comfort her. It was all she could do to stay upright. Her legs had weakened since she had been forced to be idle. There was something else taking over her body; a growing feeling of resentment. She could feel it beginning to invade her blood and bones like a slow but insistent poison. Why was it that both she and Juno were being punished? What had she done? She had obeyed the rules of the community to the letter. She had saved a stranger from drowning. And now the others were asking for her help to pacify Juno.

 

‘I’m ready,’ said Hannalore.

‘Put on your headscarf,’ said Sarah. ‘Don’t make any more trouble for yourself.’

 

7

 

Juno was in the small room at the back of the meeting hut that was designated as a sick bay, a place where ill people could be segregated from the healthy workers. The two iron hospital beds were empty. A small white cupboard between the beds concealed a commode. A shelf holding a collection of medicines was attached to the wall. Bottles of zinc sulphate, quinine, aspirin and friar’s balsam stood in neat rows. Lumps of camphor sewn into muslin bags hanging from hooks above the shelf provided a pungent medicinal aroma to the spartan room. 

 

Juno was standing between the beds. Her brown eyes were small and deep like the glass eyes on a child’s soft toy. Her body quivered. She looked ready to run away at a moment’s notice.

 

‘I have brought Hannalore to you,’ said Sarah.

Juno did not respond.

‘Maybe it would be better if we went out into the bush,’ said Hannalore.

‘The wind has turned,’ said Sarah. ‘Heavy rain will soon be upon us.’

‘We could go to the kitchen and sit on the settle out of the way of the workers.’ 

‘No,’ said Sarah. ‘Juno has spoken bad words there and abused the food. Augusta said it’s enough to sour the milk.’

‘I could feed her,’ said Hannalore. ‘She will take sustenance from me.’

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this but there’s a move underway to get rid of her.’

 

Hannalore was shocked. She hoped that Juno had not heard what Sarah had said. Juno’s eyes still held that floating gaze, empty and unfocussed, as if she could not see what was right in front of her face but that did not mean that she could not hear. 

 

Sarah lowered her voice. ‘We can no longer afford to keep her. There is talk of sending her to an orphanage in town.’

 

Juno gave a strange cry and fell to the floor. Hannalore crouched down and held her in her arms. Juno began to bang her head against the wooden floor.

 

Thump! Thump! Thump!

 

Hannalore tried to hold Juno’s head upright but the child resisted her. Hannalore cried out to Sarah but the old woman had gone.

 

Thump! Thump! Thump!

 

Hannalore had never seen Juno like this before. She did not know what to do. All she could think of was to hum a tune. A ballad she had once heard swam up into her mind. She had forgotten the words so she sang the melody to the nonsense sounds of da da da… da da da…

 

Juno stopped banging her head. She garbled something to Hannalore about a terrible noise of coughing, a child gasping for breath. She could see other bad things too; a man’s back covered with black spots and a lady with blood running from her nose, down her front, all over her blouse.  

 

Hannalore sang da da da again to Juno. She stroked Juno’s cheeks and told her not to be afraid. ‘Pay no attention to those shades. Snap! Snap your fingers like I taught you to do, walk backwards around a circle, throw salt, anything to put them in their place.’

 

The room darkened, and soon the rain was pinging off the iron roof like gun shots. Juno asked for a candle. She smiled with delight when Hannalore opened the little cupboard between the beds and brought out the stub of a candle and a box of wax vestas from behind the commode. On the cover of the matchbox was a white swan. Inside the box were three matches. Hannalore gave one to Juno. She tried to light it by striking the match on the wooden door of the cupboard. Hannalore suggested she try it on the sole of her shoe. Juno gave a cry of joy when the match flared up.

 

‘Quickly,’ said Hannalore. ‘Let’s throw some light around.’

 

The candle stub hissed and burned. Juno asked if she could have another match to light with her shoe. Hannalore said no. There were just two left in the box.  They had to be saved for something more important. Juno asked if she could have the swan box when it was empty.

 

‘Of course,’ said Hannalore. ‘But first you have to be very brave.’

Juno nodded.

‘And you have to promise me that you can keep a really big secret.’

Juno nodded again.

‘We are going away, just you and me.’

Juno clapped her hands. ‘A holiday!’

‘Something like that,’ said Hannalore. ‘But no one else must find out.’

‘Can you sing the da da song again?’

‘Not now. ‘We are going to the kitchen to have something to eat.’     

 

She placed the box of swan vestas and a bottle of aspirin into her coverall pocket. She unhooked a camphor bag from the wall and hung it beneath Juno’s camisole to keep her safe from harm. The candle stub spluttered out. 

 

They came out of the sick bay. There was no one in the meeting room. They ran hand in hand to the kitchen porch that provided some shelter against the driving rain. Hannalore’s legs ached with the unaccustomed movement. She knew then that she must lie low for a few days in order to regain her strength for the journey ahead.  

 

Hannalore opened the kitchen door. Augusta was turning out a loaf onto a wire cooling rack. There was a delicious smell of hot bread.

 

Sarah was stirring a soup pot on the coal range. ‘Two drowned rats,’ she said.  

‘Sorry,’ said Hannalore.

‘Dripping all over my clean floor,’ said Augusta.

‘Sorry,’ repeated Hannalore.

‘You will be, if you don’t keep that wretched child under control.’

 

Sarah replaced the lid on the soup pot. She unwound the rope that held the clothesline securely in place and lowered it down from the roof. She plucked a threadbare towel from the pulley and helped Juno to dry her face and hair.

 

Augusta was knocking down the dough for the next batch of bread. She hit the dough with the side of her hand until it was almost flat then folded it up into smaller rectangles before knocking it down again. Thump! Thump! Thump!

 

The sound made Hannalore nervous.

 

Juno emerged from Sarah’s vigorous rubbing with the towel. Her cheeks were flushed with heat and her eyes glittered. ‘Not allowed to tell,’ she said. Augusta’s busy hands stopped in mid air above the dough.

 

‘It’s just an old tune without words,’ said Hannalore. ‘I told her to keep it a secret.’ 

‘Da da da,’ sang Juno.

 

Augusta resumed torturing her dough. Sarah shook out the damp towel and hung it back on the line. She placed two bowls on the table and filled them with potato and mutton broth. She took a serrated knife and hacked two slices from the hot loaf.

 

‘I need to make sandwiches for the men’s lunches from that,’ said Augusta. ‘Look how you’ve shredded it.’

 

Hannalore was hungry. She wolfed down the hot meaty soup, almost scalding her throat in the process. Juno ate more slowly, pausing now and then to repeat Augusta’s words you’ve shredded it, shredded it, shredded it… until Augusta threw her arms up into the air and walked out of the door saying that she’d had enough, it was more than a body could bear.

 

Sarah took over the bread making. She rolled some dough into thin strips and plaited them together to make a decoration for her loaves. Juno asked her if she could make a little loaf. Sarah gave her some dough, a rolling pin, and a tin with holes in the lid to dust the pastry board with flour. Juno soon became engrossed in her task.

 

‘Look at her,’ said Hannalore. ‘It takes so little to keep her happy. The orphanage would break her heart. And mine.’

‘We can’t carry a non-productive member no matter how much it grieves us.’

‘Juno is capable of doing domestic work if someone is there to guide her,

‘There is some resentment against her,’ said Sarah.

‘Why?’

‘For not dying in the flu epidemic when the normal ones did.’

 

Hannalore was shocked into silence. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Sarah if she felt like that over the loss of her son Harry. Sarah opened the oven door and turned the loaves so that the crusts would brown evenly. She mumbled something about having to accept God’s will, like it or not.

 

Juno had made a mess. The table and the floor were sprinkled with flour. The dough that she had tried to make into a plaited loaf was blackened from constant kneading with her grubby fingers. She asked if her little loaf could go into the oven after the big ones were cooked.

 

‘Of course,’ said Hannalore. ‘And then you can eat it while it’s hot.’

‘It’s filthy,’ said Sarah. ‘Fit only for the pig bucket.’

Hannalore placed her spoon carefully into her empty soup bowl. She managed to anchor her rage deep within her body.   

‘Pig bucket pig bucket,’ cried Juno.

‘No,’ said Hannalore. ‘We will smother the little loaf in melted butter and eat it together.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

 

This entry was posted on Friday, December 5th, 2008 at 2:35 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.