Walking and Other Short Stories

By Mary Brooks

Collections of short stories mostly reflecting every day life and its vicissitudes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Nov 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499029307

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Copyright © 2014 by Mary Brooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/25/2014

Xlibris

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Contents

The Will

Tonight

Travelling

Uni Dreams

Waiting

Walking

White and Blue

Zoo Hospital

A New Start

Boxing Day

Bridge to Love

CDFU

Change

Child Prodigy

Country Trip

Crash! Bang!

Decisions

Dimple

Dis-Ease

Dreaming

Dropped His Bundle

Fete

Visitors

Forgive Me

Frenetic

George Fredericks

Girl with Golden Hair

Chapter Goodbye

Grand Canyon Surprise

Guiding

Home

Ian and Sarah

Jeannie

Law

Leon Lost

September 30, 2012

The Will

T he street lights shone on the treetops. The trees swayed in the wind, settled to still, then shook and shivered, and then the treetops trembled when the breeze blew softly and the wind wound up again to a wild, lashing power. Darkness hid the rest of the trees, and the light lit only the treetops and the power lines, the round shape of the light fractured by the shapes of the windblown leaves and smaller branches.

Ebony sat in her car, in the dark, waiting for the wind and rain to abate. She had an appointment with her lawyer at 6.30 p.m. Fortunately, he had waited for her after work.

Ebony worked in a jeweller’s shop and had not been able to take time off. She was a cleaner and worked from 4.30 to 6 p.m. every day. She loved her work there as she delighted in seeing the cabinets of diamond, zircon, gold, silver, and platinum necklaces and bracelets and brooches. The more-expensive items were locked away after business hours.

Ebony was an old-age pensioner and widowed. It had been very difficult rebuilding a single life, and tonight she was going to write a new will. She worked only the required hours for her to receive the maximum wage she was allowed to get before she lost any of her Centrelink payment. She had little actual money to leave, but her husband’s death had made her aware that a will is necessary for everybody.

Snatching a break in the rain, she locked her car and raced up to the lawyer’s front door. What a lovely setting, she sighed. She loved the trees and also this little old cottage where Mr Silberstein worked. The porch light shone pale in the night, and the inside light shone brightly through the stained-glass window above the front door, matched by the two panels on the door itself. The windows had large red roses with green winding stems and leaves. She pressed the old-fashioned doorbell, and the door was opened by Mr Silberstein himself.

He was a gracious grey-haired gentleman, and she a demure lady in green and grey. They shook hands, and Mr Silberstein ushered her into his office. She glanced around and saw the modern candle-shaped fluorescent light bulbs in an ancient chandelier hanging down from a night ceiling with raised patterns of apricots, figs, and vines. The office walls were a soft cream, and there were a jarrah bookcase and jarrah chairs, a large roll-top desk, a maroon lounge suite to the side, and a patterned Persian carpet to match.

‘Good evening, Mrs Corbett,’ said the solicitor. ‘My name is Frank Silberstein.’

‘Good evening, Mr Silberstein. Thank you for waiting for me. Isn’t the weather foul!’

‘Come and sit down. Here, take a chair.’ And they sat on the jarrah chairs alongside the desk. ‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘Or tea?’

‘White coffee, please. One sugar, if it’s no bother.’

He pressed an intercom button, ordered the coffees, and they arrived two minutes later.

‘Well, Mrs Corbett, I understand you wish to write your will.’

‘Yes, please, and power of attorney and guardianship.’

‘Let’s take those first. Whom will you nominate? I believe you have three children. Would it be one or all of them?’

‘Oh no, thank you. My nephew William Johnson.’

‘All right. His address please?’

‘It’s 6/33 Alba St, Lewisham East.’

‘Certainly. And how old is Mr Johnson please?’

‘He is thirty-three and in good health. I am sure he will outlive me, and he is an accountant and very sensible. And he lives in a suburb not too far from Marrickville.’

‘Certainly. That’s all very simple. I can email the paperwork to you, and you can print it out and have it signed or bring it back here. We have a gentleman who can witness it. He charges $50. It is, of course, cheaper if you do it yourself. These two pieces of paperwork cost $130 and $140, a total of $270.

‘And now, your will. I believe Jordan is the eldest of your children, and he is married with two children—boys, I believe. Now what is the name of your second son? I only remember Jordan and Carol.’

‘My second child is Ian, and he is not married. He lives with his partner, and they are both career people and have no intention of having a family.

‘Carol, on the other hand, has six children—four boys and two girls. Her husband died last year, and the children are in their late teens and twenties. Carol is well provided for by her husband’s life insurance.’

‘And I suppose your children—’

‘No, Mr Silberstein. I give my children any help I can while I am alive. I have made sure that they are all settled in their own homes, and I told them their homes are their inheritance from me.’

‘Certainly, Mrs Corbett, let me take a list of your remaining assets. And could you please outline the distribution?’

‘Well, that’s easy. Everything goes to my young neighbour Terry.’

‘Certainly, I see Terry is very important to you.’

‘Yes. Now let me list the assets. My house is worth $1.5 million, plus all the antiques inside. The Mercedes is old now and worth only $45,000, and the BMW about the same value.’

Mr Silberstein must have looked surprised, but Mrs Corbett did not notice and ploughed on.

‘I have jewellery worth about $20,000 and some investments with Brewers and, last of all, my two chihuahuas. Everything is in a trust, so it doesn’t affect my pension.’

‘Certainly, Mrs Corbett. And all this to your neighbour Terry?’

‘Yes, please.’

Mr Silberstein wrote hurriedly until he had listed everything, then sat back, somewhat mystified.

‘Ah, I can see the question in your eyes, Mr Silberstein. Let me tell you a story.

‘Jordan was born in the sixties, Ian was born two years later, and then Carol two years after that. They all went to private schools, and I’ve given each of them a house and a car and enough money to get established.

‘Their father died seven years ago and left each of them a decent amount. Jordan has travelled the world, more so than the other two. Ian is homosexual—not that I hold that against him—and Carol married an orthopaedic surgeon. They all live very comfortably.

‘Now, Terry, mind you, is a hard-working lad and very honest. He works very long hours and is completely trustworthy. He also breeds chihuahuas and gave me Sterling and Rhea. He will take good care of them.

‘And Terry is the most wonderful lover and a splendid manager of my big chain of brothels. He deserves everything.’

March 18, 2013

Tonight

J esse was going out to dinner toni ght, and he hoped this would be extra special.

This afternoon Jesse had a soccer game. It was against a seasoned Vietnamese team, and his own team had little chance of winning.

‘Hi, Jesse, ready for a beating?’ called Thanh, and Duc laughed loudly. ‘You haven’t got a chance!’

The game is off to a great start, thought Jesse.

He and his other team members had been training hard three nights a week; he had practised his ball skills often at home.

However, two hours later the Vietnamese team won. Jesse’s team went off with them to commiserate or to celebrate, whichever was appropriate. They all had enjoyed a top-class game.

Today Jesse didn’t join them; he was nervous. He needed to settle himself before dinner later tonight. His plan was this: an hour’s massage, a good hot spa and shower, then a slow drive out along the coast towards the Sea King restaurant. Jesse had never been to this restaurant, but he had seen the signs whenever he drove along the coast road. He had heard a lot of good things about it.

Now he lay there, having his massage.

‘You like it hard?’ asked Jimmy, the Chinese masseur.

‘Yes, please,’ replied Jesse.

He lay there, peering through the hole in the couch at the stack of magazines on the shelf below as Jimmy worked away. The couch was covered with a pristine white sheet. White towels stood in a pile near the wall. Jimmy was a brilliant masseur. He pummelled and punched, pulled and pushed, and pinched up his skin, and Jesse moaned inwardly with sensual satisfaction.

‘You asleep?’ called Jimmy. ‘What a laugh, mate, you could sleep through a tornado.’

After the massage, he sat in the gym’s spa for about ten minutes, then headed towards the shower.

Jesse dressed carefully—slacks, loafers, and a soft light-green cashmere jumper. Jesse splashed some expensive aftershave on his face after he shaved and stood back to admire his presentation.

Yes, not overdone, he thought, just casual and warmly companionable.

He went down to the garage, buzzed open the door, climbed into his Toyota Corolla, and started the car. It was dark now, and as he turned into the boulevard, he saw a long arrow of bright street lights pointing into the distance and masses of red tail lights of the cars in front.

There was blackness down to the right, where the sea was quietly splashing away as the waves crashed on the shore. As he drove closer to the ocean, the salty smell and soft rhythmic splashing comforted his anxiety. He pulled his attention back to the evening ahead. Soon he reached the Sea King restaurant, parked his car, and walked in.

‘Table for Parry,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir, please follow me.’

It was ideal—a table for two, overlooking the dark ocean.

The table was set with bread–and-butter plates, the entrée and main-course cutlery, the dessert spoons at the top, folded napkins, water carafes and glasses, and wine glasses. There were salt and pepper grinders, rolls and butter, and even a lovely yellow rose in a tall thin glass. Perfect, he thought.

Now, all he had to do was to wait! Waiting is killing me, he thought.

‘Ah, there she is!’ he whispered to himself.

A lovely young lady crossed the restaurant and turned towards him as the waiter pointed to the table.

‘Hi, Louise,’ he said.

‘Hi, Jesse.’

He stood to pull back her seat for her and unfolded her napkin on to her lap, then kissed her gently.

‘Let’s choose the menu,’ he said and picked up the menu. Both chose a goat cheese tart with roasted pumpkin and pine nuts, then the fish of the day, and salad. Jesse chose a Cabernet Sauvignon. The waiter brought it out and poured a little for him to taste, then filled their glasses.

They both sipped their wine, then both started to talk at the same time. They sat back, looked at each other, and laughed.

‘You first,’ said Jesse.

‘OK, I was just going to ask you how the game went today,’ said Louise.

‘Well, we lost, three to one, but it was a great game,’ replied Jesse. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I’ve been shopping and bought a new pair of shoes for Gemma’s wedding.’

They sat back. The waiter arrived with the entrée, and they both tucked into the delicious dish.

They ate the first dish in silence, the fish next, and finished with tiramisu and then coffee.

Jesse had had two glasses of wine and felt more calm and confident. He stood rather quickly, walked round the table, knelt before Louise, and spoke gently, ‘Louise, I love you. Will you marry me?’

June 30, 2013

Travelling

I t took one and three-quarter hours for George to charge his camera, and he cursed himself for letting it run low. He had missed some great shots on his way to Mt Isa.

Before the Isa, he had been at Cairns for four days, then Charters Towers for one day. At Cairns the weather had been sunny some of the time and had rained overnight with some cloudy days. The sun was what he had expected of a place so far north, but who was to say anything was as expected.

Take Surfers Paradise, for example; it had been cold and windy—hardly worth stopping there at all. Ayers Rock too—he had expected it to be sunny, if not warm, and so did the tour directors because literally dozens of buses line up to allow tourists to photograph the Rock at sunset and again the next morning to photograph the sunrise. On both occasions, the sky was so grey and cloudy that the sunset and sunrise were only noticeable by the light disappearing or reappearing behind the clouds.

At least Cairns had had some warm, sunny weather. It was really well suited to exploring the rainforests and going to see part of the Great Barrier Reef. When it rained, all the grassy areas along the Esplanade became like quicksand. When George had stepped on the grass, his whole shoe