Year of Days: Summer

By Lachlan Donehue

The constants in our lives are our defining seasons, amid the relational and expressive collage which is the formative relationships which are equally us. We are our people, our seasons, our times, our perceptions. Every day is different, but our seasons are constants. Summer is the illustrative season of Australia, as Winter is for Scandinavia, or Autumn for New England. Year of Days: Summer transcribes the depth and reality of Australia through relationships across Summers, the impermanent meeting the unchanging.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Apr 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922812162

Lachlan Donehue

Lachlan is a writer and teacher who grew up in Melbourne and western Victoria, has worked across Australia in diversely fascinating settings, and has the privilege of working in the most wonderful of galleries.He and his wife have three children, and a small menagerie of entertainingly interesting animals.Lachlan is a Christian who enjoys literature, art, body-boarding and Australian Rules Football.Lachlan is also the author of A Kind Providence.

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Lachlan Donehue

This is an IndieMosh book

brought to you by MoshPit Publishing

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Copyright 2022 © Lachlan Donehue

All rights reserved

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Disclaimer

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.

There is a time for everything, a season for every activity under heaven.

Ecclesiastes 3:1

Seasons are the light and background to our lives, the settings we move within and through. Our heartbeats are the rhythm of our bodies, seasons are the rhythm of our lifespans.

God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart.

Ecclesiastes 3:11

Australian Summers are typically and regionally hot and dry, tropical and humid, suffused with warmth and reflection, alight with line and colour, tasting of salt and ash, often unbearably arid, transmuted by storms and lightning. All of these. Summer feels like the element of fire.

For

Dixie, Robyn, Erica, Kait, Siouxz

Et, au-dela des mots et du sens, a Jehanne, une Princesse du Ciel x

Lachlan Donehue

1st December 1961

‘Listen, go back, son, go back there, and make your peace.’

His twitching hands would not be still, so he clasped them.

‘I can’t, Father, that’s the problem.’

‘Can’t isn’t the way of faith. Knock out the T.’ His Irish accent was liltingly stereotypical.

‘Sorry?’

‘Knock out the T, man. Make it can.’

The confessional was quiet a moment, the sort of quiet which is tension incubating response.

‘I couldn’t think of anything else.’ This raw honesty wasn’t meant to be devaluing, but it intensified the awkwardness.

An audibly disapproving snort punctuated the confession. Even the snort was Irish somehow.

‘Pray the rosary, say ten Hail Mary’s.’

‘What? Is that all?’

‘There’s other folk waitin’ fer me. Go on now.’

The confessional’s narrow door was stained dark, the stale cushion sat like moulded concrete under his arse. Stale and stuffy air hung thick, outside was a humid evening. He glanced at the mesh grille through which he spoke to the Priest, looking for movement or shado – anything. All that betrayed life was a nasal breathing on the other side.

This the Church.

For this martyrs bled in arenas, and missionaries toiled in distant tropics. Electric lights in the ceiling, prescription penances, queues of people thinking what to say and calculating the equation of truth with acceptability. Confess the bet which cost part of the rent that week, but don’t mention the sexual arousal you felt over your daughter’s 13 year old friend. Jesus hated hypocrisy. Anger beat the inside of his chest, frustration clawed towards the surface of his fragile rationality, ready to rip it wide, to let blood splat and spray.

Opening the door and stepping out made way for a woman with shiny cheeks and she too had a visible stain, of dark moustache; she looked vacant and tired, with charcoal circles under her eyes, pretty eyes he noticed.

Was there anything left for the priest? It was too late anyway.

Nothing worth saying. Bowed heads punctuated the pews back away to the main doors, about a dozen mainly older folk. Half a dozen penitents queued for the priest. Tarnished brass glowed tiredly with a patina of many years’ incense and fingers dipped into holy water, cruciformed on innumerable foreheads.

Mary gazed serenely from a small statuette adjacent to the brass holy-water cruse – she always seemed to be wearing blue.

He knew he would try to make peace; he could not stop himself.

2nd December 1972

Again, the Labor anthem. The tune partly irritated her and partly energised her. It’s Time, It’s Time … The screen was clear, the talking head was the young ABC guy with long hair and excited eyes – he was obviously a Labor supporter even though he was supposed to be neutral – couldn’t conceal his excitement. Nearly midnight, Gough Whitlam had already been interviewed, and sounded modest for once.

Great responsibility, it’s an honour, bull-crap, rubbish, bullshit, blah, blah. She liked him, he had ideas, and he was just a more powerful man than Billy McMahon, that was all – she couldn’t vote, but she would have voted for him. He had something – presence.

Back to the reporter talking about the first Labor government since 1949. It sounded a long time – 1949. Before she was born anyway.

‘Get up.’ She talked quietly to her ovular undulating body, levering herself up from the springy chair and glancing at the reflection staring black-and-whiteley back from the darkened window. Huge belly, hair tied back, breasts sitting large and out of shape on the lump of pregnancy, legs looking strong and long, her pubic hair almost obscured by the roundness and prominence above. It was heavy and sagging, but she felt alive, and alove. She wondered what Gough Whitlam would have thought if he could look back at her through the tv, at a naked girl in the chair. The pregnant big-belly naked girl! This made her smile – it was almost her time too.

3rd December 2001

Insomnia extracts the security right out of you – it’s merciless. Late in bed, with a weak light bulb spraying brittle electric light, balancing an awkwardly shaped mug of herbal tea between your knees, and flipping the pages around without spilling it – all takes multiple skills. Finishing the exercise allowed him to retrieve the tea and relax his legs, as the page unfolded more of the proposal. He had trouble believing this was a letter from HairFactor Inc – huge American hair accessories company. You probably own some of their product without realising, items like hair clips, hair ties, hair gel, and hair toner. At 2.38am, he felt like he should be sharing this, but he was alone. Early mornings are alone spaces mostly. Or, at that time you feel more alone. He was drifting into a meditation on aloneness when he shook his head and checked the time again – 2.41.

‘Get a grip.’ Inserted between paragraphs which read like magazine pulp, was a 2-para section which invited him to consider joining the HairFactor family as a valuable and innovative supplier, and a hint that this would make him a lot of money.

He was also invited to visit them. The address line was NYC.

A really big corporation. Like the same multinationals who source cobalt from mines which use child labour for computer parts, chocolate companies who buy cacao from west Africa – also use child labour, and pen making companies which use extensive tonnages of plastic even though plastics were emerging as a major environmental disaster. Here’s a letter from one of them, saying ‘Join us.’ Joining them would be like a sell-out. It felt like that. Or is that ideological Puritanism? What would she say?

What would she say? He turned out the light and lay in the stillness. Not even thinking about missing her. Missing her was a part of him. It was a gap in him, like any other significant gap – stomachs were basically gaps, mouths were basically gaps, arteries were gaps … gaps are parts of you. The gap she is is the gap she is. There’s no other way.

He cried in the dark – when he was alone with memories. It was the only time, except when he saw Kane. He knew Kane from way back – when he was a warm bump under her bloodwarm satin skin. Why did he remember that so clearly. Maybe it was the smell. He knew that smell recalls memories faster than anything else, but he could not smell her in the dark, on his own. You can’t remember smells like you remember sounds. He could lie in the dark and play an entire classical symphony in his head – he often did that, starting Elgar’s Lark Ascending in his head and playing the whole thing to the end. But he could not summon smells and aromas the same way. He could just remember the context. That was enough. He could describe her scent, but not summon it. Perhaps that was good – if he could do that, he would cry and lie in bed a lot more.

What would she say? It had come so suddenly – one week from seizure to the end. One week. He had money and it made no difference. Would more money make any difference now? That’s what she would say. Will it make a difference? What would she say?

Make a difference to someone who needs it.

4th December 1961

She held his hand while he talked on the phone. He was saying a lot of ‘U-huh’ and ‘I see’ and ‘Go on.’ Her patience drained away like dishslops down the sink – squeezing his hand hard so he glanced at her, shaking his head.

Harry’s voice was barely audible from the earpiece, just a metallic vibrato in the quiet room.

‘Well, let us know when you have news, and give our love to Maeve.’

More birdsqueaks from the earpiece, and then silence.

‘Is she in labour?’

He stood a moment, her hand gripping his. ‘Let go.’

She did – realising that she had been clinging. ‘Yairs, she started at about 2 o’clock.’ He drawled out the ‘Yairs’ in the characteristic fashion of his Mallee birthplace. The clock said 3.45.

‘Which hospital?’

‘St Andrews, East Melbourne.’

‘I know where it is. Should we go in?’

He walked to the window and gazed out through the curtains, through the fishbone fern, loquat tree branches and pattering rain. ‘I don’t reckon. Not yet. It’s been hard for him. He needs to have some room.’

‘He’s been alone too much.’

‘That was his decision.’

‘Well it’s our grandchild.’

‘We’ll have to wait.’

‘They treat him like a criminal – it takes two. Bloody shits they are, acting like she was the Virgin Mary and Harry was like bloody Jack the Ripper.’

‘Don’t fash yourself.’

‘I can’t stand it, Arch. Poor Harry.’

‘He’ll be alright. It’ll come good.’

‘Bloody better.’

‘Here, sit down and I’ll get a pot of tea.’ She could never say no to tea.

He guided her to an armchair, and patted her shoulder as she sat down. She was doing it hard, feeling left out. He didn’t like it any more than she did. In the kitchen he flicked on the burner and ran the kettle under the tap, then plonked the kettle squarely on the flame. He smelt the cigarette smoke through the doorway, and couldn’t blame her. Neither smoked a lot, but she had been smoking more lately, going through a packet of Benson&Hedges every day or two. There were some biscuits in the tin, and he buttered some ginger-cake. Whisking the kettle off the hob, he poured the sputtering water into the old blue pot and tipped in two heaped spoons of the black tea, gave it a quick stir, and looked in on her. She smiled up at him.

‘Sorry I got upset.’

‘I don’t blame yer. Just don’t want you getting worked up.’

‘It’s going to be hard. He’ll need us.’

He nodded; they’d had this conversation a thousand times. She just seemed to need the words often.

Turning to the kitchen, he poured two cups, milk in both, and walked them in before returning for the cake.

‘He’ll need us to be here, Addie.’

She nodded and sipped. ‘I know.’

‘The baby is the main one. He’ll be a good father.’

He had that way about him, he could reassure her. If the house was burning down around them, and he told her to sit down while he got some tea, she’d probably do it. He just had a soothing voice.

She loved both her men, and already loved the baby. It just wasn’t the way she’d hoped.

‘Thanks, Arch.’

‘She’ll be apples.’ He reached over, and squeezed her hand.

5th December 1915

Soft white wisps whirred in the chilling wind, gusting along the trench, hurling stinging ice particles against their faces. The long trousers helped, but many blokes still only had shorts and kept warm by wrapping blankets around their legs. Creeping along silently towards Steel’s, listening for any signs of Turks – the most telltale were heavy breathing sounds, but you had to be alert. Rifle fire was sporadic and consistent – background noise. About five yards along, three young fellows crouched around a meagre fire they were guarding from the wind with their backs. If he’d been a Turk, they’d be dead right now. Pausing and listening, they murmured and occasionally giggled as they stirred the tea. He could smell the astringent warm scent of the brew, and leaned towards them.

‘Hoy, is there enough for me?’

They all turned to look, clearly surprised. ‘Yessir, should be enough.’ The gap created by their movement showed him their fire, flickering in a small hole they’d dug on the Johnny side of the pit. They were all late teens, and too trusting.

‘Good-oh. Here.’ He slung his enamelled mug towards them and the nearest lad whipped his hand out and gripped it firmly.

‘Play cricket?’

‘Yessir.’

‘Who for?’

‘Morningside, Sir.’

‘In Brisbane?’

‘Yessir.’

‘I’ve been there once. Back in 1910. There was a meeting up there.’

One of the other boys spoke up, ‘We all come from Morningside.’

‘All play cricket?’

‘No, Sir, Will here is the best cricketer.’

The third one was still crouching at the fire and fiddling around.

‘Here, Sir.’ He handed the mug back, half full of dark tan tea.

‘It’s only strained with hessian.’

‘Thank you. How long have you been here?’

‘Came in a month ago, with supplies. About 200 of us.’

‘I remember that coming in. The tea’s good. You boys won’t be used to the cold, then?

The cricketer, Will, spoke evenly, ‘Not really, Sir. Where are you from, may I ask?’

‘A country town in Victoria – I don’t think you’ll know it.’

The boy squatting at the fire chipped in, ‘My Mum’s from a farm in Victoria. What’s the town called?’

‘Warracknabeal. I actually come from near Warracknabeal.’ Swallowing the tea left a comforting trail down his gullet; at least one part of him was warm.

‘Nah, haven’t heard that name, Sir.’

‘Where’s your Mother from?’

‘It’s called Warragul, Sir. Not Warracknabeal.’

‘Ah, yes, in Gippsland.’

‘Do you have family, Captain?’

‘I do, yes. Just had a baby boy.’

All three looked at him and offered varieties of congratulation – from the predictable ‘congratulations’ to ‘bloody beauty’ to ‘well, that’s bonzer.’ He thanked them.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Same as me …’

At that second, another breath-taking swirl of snow whipped across the trench.

‘Woh. That’s cold.’

They were very young, like kids on a Sunday-school picnic. He wanted them to get to Christmas.

‘Keep your heads down, boys, snipers don’t miss. And thanks for the tea.’

‘No worries, Sir.’

‘I mean it, boys, never turn your back to the Turk, always have one on watch.’

They watched the Officer as he disappeared back towards Quinns, still the most dangerous position up here, with his hands tucked under his arms. The fire was waning so they showed it some love, poking twigs and bits of chopped up boxes into the base and shielding the reluctant flames with their bodies.

Their Sergeant stumbled out of the Quinns trench and sat heavily next to the entrance. The arctic conditions had him blowing and sniffling. Bloody Gallipoli, last week it’d been quite warm.

‘You alright, Sarge?’

The big, solid, red-faced man glanced across at them, ‘Yes, lads. Yes. Bastard of a day.’

‘Who was that Captain just then?’

‘Archie Cain. Good bloke, too.’

‘We gave him some tea.’

‘Yeh. Well, he said to put those three young blokes on report if one of them isn’t up the sap and on guard.’

They didn’t speak this time.

Will, the cricketer, shuffled across the pit, retrieved his .303 and grinned, ‘I’ll take slips.’

6th December 1974

Sensations of deadness and ice in his arm felt dull, nauseous. Ludicrous that he was sweating, and panting like a dog. Must be the heat, bloody hot day this early in Summer.

Trying to stand up he just couldn’t, the sharp pain in his shoulder shattered the dead cold of his arm with hot trickling pain burning around the collarbone, searing around like red-hot wire.

The phone was in the hallway. He pushed off the settee and stayed on his knees, shuffling to the doorway and into the passage. Another stab of hot wire pushed him into the wall where he just leaned and breathed. His ears were ringing. Ringing. The phone was another two yards. Bugger the new metric measurement crap. Yards made more sense. Kilos, bloody hell, what a pile of bullshit, the wall was spinning, he looked back towards the phone. There’s something wrong. Something wrong. Lurching on his knees again he reached the cream coloured phone and momentarily wondered why he was there, his ears were making noise, his shoulder hurt, he couldn’t breathe, 000. A voice immediately, Police, Ambulance, Fire Brigade.

‘I feel sick, not right.’

‘Can you describe the problem?’

‘My arm’s cold, but I’m sweating, can’t breathe.’

‘What is your address, Sir?’

He panted, trying to swallow enough oxygen, ‘Address? 12 Chaucer Grove, Preston.’

‘What is your name?’

The woman sounded calm and caring. ‘My name’s Harry – what’s yours?’

‘I’m Carla, good to meet you, Harry. Do you have a surname?’

‘Cain. Harry Cain.’

‘How old are you, Harry?’

She sounded far away, like she was calling to him from a high place. He just breathed.

‘Harry? There’s an ambulance coming to help you, Harry. Are you there? Talk with me, Harry.’

‘Your name, what is it?’

‘I’m Carla. You might hear the siren soon, Harry. Just tell me how old you are?’

‘Old? 34. I am 34.’ Slight pause.

‘Oh, same as me. I’m 34 too. Can you hear a siren, Harry?’

‘No.’

‘Where are you Harry, in the bedroom or the kitchen?’

‘Hall.’

He needed to lie down. He felt sick, wanted to vomit.

The phone lay on the floor, and he could hear Carla, but he couldn’t answer her. Too far away.

* * *

‘Harry? Harry?’

A voice came before the light. It was almost more energy than he had, to open his eyes. He felt present but with an unbearable heaviness pulling ineluctably through his body, glueing him from beneath, holding things closed and tight. Willing his eyes open, shapes shimmered into view, a face and a curtain of some kind. He stared at the face, focusing, finding definition. There was a girl, a nice clear-skinned girl with a white cap. A nurse, he realised.

Trying to speak meant opening his mouth; he tried but managed only a moan, a small breathing exhaled out with no definition or meaning. The sound was soft and hollow.

‘There you are.’ She wiped his face with something warm and damp, working at his lips and forehead, she was firm and gentle simultaneously.

‘Where am I?’

‘You’re in hospital, Harry. Been here since midday.’ She moved to his neck and ears.

He processed this for a moment. What time now; he concentrated in this.

‘Jacqui?’

‘Who’s Jacqui, love?’

He breathed again, lifting a memory of her face to