Short Story no.2

The second story I was asked to write for the Sunday Age came with a new challenge. This time the editor wanted to publish a two-part story for children over two Sundays. This is harder than it sounds. I knew that each story would have to feel fully resolved enough not to be frustrating for the reader but that I would also need a cliffhanger at the end of part one to make my reader want to read the second part.

Then the second part would have to give the reader a brief summary of the first part in case they hadn't read the story the week before. A bit like a TV episode really - but all within 8oo words per story! And a very tight deadline, of course.

So, as it was summer I set out to write a story that felt like it contained the essence of my childhood summers. Of barefoot kids going feral, making gangs, sussing out newbies and inventing dares. This is it.

Old Hannah’s Hut.

PART ONE:

At the top of Blind Man’s Bluff, at the end of a rocky, winding track, there is a falling down old hut like a crumbling piece of gingerbread. Nobody takes the track right to the end of the Bluff, even though it’s the shortest route to the beach because everybody knows that Old Hannah Stringbean lives in that hut.

And everybody knows that Old Hannah Stringbean eats children.

Last summer, Billy O’Donohue dared the new kid three footy cards and a bag of mixed lollies to take the shortcut to the beach past Old Hannah’s hut. The new kid, Emilio Something-Or-Other, had floppy black hair and a crooked smile and he looked like the kind of kid I’d like to be friends with. But only Billy O’Donohue talks to the newbies ’cause his dad runs the caravan park. Billy is the boss of our gang.

It’s easy to tell the difference between the newbie kids and us locals because newbies are usually pale and blotchy and they squint into the sun. But Emilio was different. He had dark skin like ours and his eyes were like the smooth black trading stones us kids dig out from Dead Man’s Creek. Nobody knew where he came from or where he was staying. He sure wasn’t a parkie or Billy would’ve known everything about him. He got me dead curious. Sometimes I would see him watching us from a distance with those dark stone eyes while we did our gang things.

So one day Billy gave him the dare.

On the day of the dare there was no wind. This is unusual for the bluff. Down on the beach you’re protected from the wind by the cliff face that towers above like a great hulking ogre. But up on the bluff you have to walk close to the ground, bent forward like a hairpin, so as not to be swept over the edge. Usually us Bluff kids take the long way to the beach, round the cliff edge and past the caves. It’s a horrible, blustery walk, and your calves get all scratched up by the blackberry bushes, but nobody ever takes the shortcut past Old Hannah’s hut.

Us kids would rather get scratched up than eaten any day.

We all gathered at the track, Billy, me, and the rest of the gang. Even the twins were there and they never usually come up to the bluff. Billy stood facing Emilio, who flicked his long black fringe out of his eyes. I liked the way he stood there, all silent and still like a tree, with the rest of us all jumping around and jittery.

Suddenly, three footy cards and a measly pack of mixed lollies didn’t seem like something worth dying for. I wondered if I should warn Emilio about Old Hannah. But Billy shot me a fierce warning look before taking Emilio’s outstretched hand.

‘See you down at the beach then?’ Billy said to Emilio. He squeezed the newbie’s smooth dark palm in his suntanned freckly one.

Emilio nodded.

We watched him saunter down the track until he came to the giant paperbark, which was the furthest that any of us had ever dared to go. There Emilio paused. And did the strangest thing. Even though I was standing right at the back of the gang and was the furthest person away from him, Emilio looked me right in the eye. Only for a second, then he was gone.

One of the twins began to cry.

I knew then that it was up to me to save him. I looked at Billy who was standing with his arms tightly crossed, carefully watching the tree in case Emilio reappeared. Billy’s face twitched in disbelief and awe. I had to think fast. I guessed it was only a matter of minutes before Emilio would arrive at Old Hannah’s hut. An idea came into my head.

‘How do we know he sticks to the path and doesn’t just cut through the bush?’ I said to Billy.

Billy screwed up his face, thinking.

‘One of us has to go after him to check that he’s not cheating,’ I said.

‘Well I’m not going!’ Billy said and he glowered at the twins who trembled in fear.

Everyone in the gang spoke quickly, nominating someone else for the job. I couldn’t say anything or it would look suspicious but I knew it was only a matter of time before somebody nominated me.

‘Carla should go!’ one of the twins squeaked. ‘She’s the oldest!’ and suddenly everyone joined in: ‘Yes, Carla should go!’

‘Great!’ I sighed. ‘Typical! You owe me big time, Billy O’Donohue!’ I yelled as I jogged down the track.

Around the bend Old Hannah waited in her hut.

*********

PART TWO

I ran down the track towards Blind Man’s Bluff. As I approached the giant paperbark, shedding long strips like sunburnt skin, I turned to look back at the gang. They were clustered together, motionless, mouths open, watching me in disbelief. Around the bend, at the end of the track, was the falling down hut where Old Hannah Stringbean sat waiting hungrily for any foolish kid to wander past. And now I was heading straight for it. All because of a stupid dare.

Old Hannah had been the source of all our nightmares for years. Billy O’Donohue had a cousin who knew a girl who had wandered into Old Hannah’s hut and had never come out again. The girl had been a newbie. She hadn’t known better. All us local kids knew that Old Hannah ate children.

Behind the hut, carved into the steep cliff-face, were the steps that provided the shortcut to the beach. Nowadays, since Old Hannah had moved in, if you met up with the gang at the Bluff Caravan Park, you had to go back along the main road and past the shops, which took ages, or skirt along the cliff to get to the beach. Nobody was game to take the steps behind Old Hannah’s hut any more.

I looked around. Emilio was nowhere in sight. I peered down the track into the dense bushland. There squatted the crumbling old hut. Two dark windows glowered at me. I crept slowly along the path, my heart pounding in my ears. In the distance I could hear the surf crashing against the cliff below. Sheltered by the steep incline was a little beach with snowy white sand and speckled pink cowrie shells. This beach belonged to our gang. It was the hardest beach to get to, but the only private place for us locals to meet when The Bluff swarmed with tourist kids over the summer. It was our secret beach. No newbies allowed. That’s where Billy and the gang would be waiting. I wondered how long they’d wait. Twenty minutes? An hour? A day?

I thought about Emilio then who, with his dark skin and darker eyes, seemed so different from all the other newbies, and how he had just turned up this summer from nowhere, hanging around our gang, watching us, and suddenly I knew why he had agreed to Billy’s stupid dare. If Emilio made it to the beach without being eaten by Old Hannah Stringbean, he would be the first newbie in the history of us Bluff kids to be accepted into our gang. I prayed that he had found another way through the bush. That Old Hannah hadn’t taken him. I had to make sure.

Ten more steps and I would be at the hut. Then seven, then five. I paused. From here I could almost see through the windows into the darkness of its belly. Those windows watched me hungrily. I tried to calm my heartbeat so that I could hear above its pounding. Was that the sound of crunching bones? Was Old Hannah feasting on poor Emilio? I should have never allowed the dare to take place. I should have stood up to Billy O’Donohue once and for all. If I made it through this, I wouldn’t listen to Billy O’Donohue ever again. Nobody would. If I made it to the beach alive, I would make myself leader of our gang. And Emilio would be second in charge. After all, I was the oldest. Who did Billy O’Donohue think he was? Just ’cause his dad ran the caravan park. That didn’t make him boss.

I took a deep breath and crawled up to the window to peer into the hut. There sat Old Hannah, with her back to me. Her long grey hair snaked down her hunched shoulders. She seemed to be gnawing on something. I felt faint with fear. I wanted to run away, but I had to know if Emilio was in there. As I watched, Old Hannah slowly pushed her chair back and stood. I leapt up. But then, before I could run away, I caught sight of someone sitting at the table across from her. I gasped. It was Emilio! As my mouth dropped open, he saw me and smiled. Striding over to wrench open the door he called out to me, where I stood frozen.

‘Carla!’ he called. ‘You took your time! Come in and meet my grandmother!’

********

Short stories and blue-speckled eggs

I have a children's story in the Sunday Age newspaper today.

I love short stories. I wrote short stories for years before I even considered embarking on my first novel. They are how I learned to write. As a young mother in the suburbs (nearly eighteen years ago!), they were my little windows of creativity. My eldest son had long afternoon sleeps as a baby - sometimes up to three hours. I would carry an idea for a story around in my head all morning while I did housework or shopped or attended to his needs. Then, the minute he was asleep, I would rush to my computer and the story would spill out of me like a fever. I trained myself to write 3000 words in two hours. They were my lifeline. Dozens and dozens of them were written over those years. Some of them stored on floppy disks (remember them?) that can never be retrieved. But that doesn't matter. It was the act of writing that was most important - not the outcome.

I continue to write short stories just for the pleasure of it. And the training they give me as writer. Those short sharp episodes. The practice of efficiency. Glimpses into a lit window, then off again. Occasionally, if I'm asked to provide a story for a publication, I might pull out one of those stories, dust it off. Rework it or shorten it or lengthen it depending on the required word count. None of the stories, that writing practice, is ever wasted.

Over the last few years, The Sunday Age has asked me to provide a children's story for their summer edition. The deadlines are always tight, the stories always need to be written in that frantically busy period just before Christmas, and I always wonder if I'll be able to come up with something in time. Then, when I create that little space in my busyness, sit down and begin, I am reminded all over again what a joy writing short stories can be. Occasionally I might be given some guidelines: word length, themes, but these boundaries only stimulate my imagination all the more - give me something to press against.

Then, of course, there's the excitement of seeing my story in the paper. Of course I buy copies for my parents, too. I don't know if the excitement of seeing my name in the paper will ever wear off. But even more exciting are the letters that come afterwards from my young readers. For two of my short stories, the letters I received were so inspiring that I was encouraged to turn them into children's novels. One of them became a Penguin Chomp titled, 'Just One Wish'. The other is the basis for my latest novel, 'Angel Creek', due out in February.

So, for those of you, who don't receive The Age newspaper, I have posted today's story below. If I can find them all, I will post the other stories over the next few weeks.

The Egg-Sitter.

Did I ever tell you about the time I found an egg in my garden? No, not a bird’s egg. Nothing like that. Much bigger. The size of a watermelon and covered in pale blue spots. Right in the middle of my veggie patch. While I was standing there looking at the egg, wondering where it had come from, and what clumsy critter had trampled all over my tomato plants, there was a knock on my front door.

I wasn’t expecting anyone. It was that dead time between Christmas and New Year and finally I had some peace and quiet to work on my novel. Instead I was distracted and disturbed by that egg. And now an unexpected visitor. I opened the door.

‘Ahem,’ came a gruff voice. ‘Someone called about an egg?’

I looked down and there, standing on my front door mat, was a stout little man in a three-piece suit. Only as high as my knee. Standing there looking up at me, his hands crossed over his round belly.

He cleared his throat again. ‘Erhm…the egg?’

‘Oh!’ I said, startled out of my staring. ‘Um, yes, I do have an egg, as a matter of fact. It’s out the back.’

He followed me through my kitchen and into the garden. ‘Who told you it was here?’ I asked him.

‘Sorry, Madam. I don’t get given that kind of information. Just get told where my next job is.’

He handed me a crisp white business card, with gold lettering.

It read:

Poulterkin and Sons

Egg-sitters since 1801

No egg too big or too small

And, sure enough, when I looked up from the card, the little man was climbing up onto the egg and making himself comfortable.

‘So… ‘ I said. My day was getting stranger and stranger. ‘You’re here to sit on that egg…’

‘Until it hatches.’

‘Until it hatches. Of course. How long exactly do you think that will take?’

The little man shrugged. ‘Hard to tell, really.’

‘Right. Well. Are you okay if I get back to work then?’

‘Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘Just pretend I’m not here.’

But this proved extremely difficult. My studio looks out over the garden, and every time I lifted my eyes from the computer screen, there he was. That little man. Sitting on that big egg in the blazing sun. I sighed, pushed back from my desk and strolled outside.

‘I was thinking of making myself a sandwich and a cup of tea. Would you like something?’

‘Oh, that’s terribly kind of you. I was in such a rush to get here this morning I didn’t have time for breakfast.’

‘Great!’ I said. ‘Ham, cheese and tomato, okay?’

‘Oh,’ he said, reddening. ‘I don’t eat ham. Or cheese. And I’m not very keen on tomatoes, to tell you the truth. Would you happen to have any honey?’

‘Sure. One honey sandwich coming up.’

‘White bread?’

‘White bread. How do you take your tea?’

‘White with ten.’

‘Sorry?’

He blushed again. ‘I know. I should be cutting back on milk. But I’ve got a long day ahead of me.’

I made the tea and sandwiches and we sat in my garden chatting. Turns out he was a keen gardener. I admitted I’d never had much luck with tomatoes. Put them in every summer but they were always disappointing.

‘So, what’s in there?’ I asked, finally. ‘I mean it’s much too big to be a bird’s egg.’

‘Oh, no, no!’ He chuckled. ‘We leave bird eggs to the birds. They’re perfectly capable mothers.’

‘Well, what then?’

He looked down at his hands. ‘Sorry, dear. Top secret. Part of the job, I’m afraid.’ And he made a gesture like he was zipping up his mouth. ‘Thanks for the tea, though. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

That afternoon I rearranged my bookshelf and sorted through my filing cabinet. I was far too distracted to work. Every now and then I’d glance out the window of my studio towards the vegetable patch and see the little man perched on the big blue-speckled egg. Occasionally, he’d nod off, but most of the time he just gazed peacefully up into the birch trees. I finished up and wandered outside.

‘I’m going to start thinking about dinner soon,’ I told the little man. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come in and join me?’

The little man’s eyes widened. ‘Oh no! I couldn’t leave the egg. Especially now it’s getting cooler.’

‘Can I bring you something then? Some dinner?’

‘Just a cup of tea, would be lovely. Thank you. But can you make them heaped teaspoons this time, please? I like my tea sweet.’

And so it went on. All that night and all the next day. All the next day and the next. The little man sat on the egg. Rain, hail or shine. I took him cups of tea that were so sweet you could almost stand a spoon up in them, but apart from the honey sandwiches, that was all he ate.

I grew to admire that little man, I have to say. I’ve never seen anyone with such patience. And I think he grew rather fond of me, too. When the weekend came around, I was faced with a dilemma. Friends had invited me down to the beach to celebrate New Year’s Eve, but I was loathe to leave him on his own. I knew I wasn’t the greatest company, but I guessed I was better than no one.

‘Go, go. Of course you must,’ he insisted. ‘It’s not healthy for someone your age to stay cooped up all summer with only an old egg-sitter to chat to.’

So, I drove down to the beach. I tried to join in the fun, the conversations, the festivities. The fireworks that year were the biggest they had ever been. But I couldn’t help thinking about the little man and worrying about him all on his own. The next morning, I got up before anyone else was awake. I drove all the way back to the city without stopping. The streets were quiet and litter was strewn everywhere.

‘Hello?’ I called as I unlocked the front door. ‘Hello?’ I strode through my kitchen and out the back door. ‘I’m home.’

But he was gone.

Where he had sat day after day was a small tomato plant, already brimming with tomatoes. When they ripened, everyone said they were the best tomatoes they’d ever tasted. Which was just as well, because all the bushes I’d planted had been squashed flat. And leading out of the veggie patch, up the garden path were the biggest footprints I’d ever seen. Big three-toed footprints that sunk deep into the earth.