October 10th is World Mental Health Day and to mark the remembrance I’m sharing two of my previously published short stories that explore aspects of mental health:
LIMBUS -first published in Pendulum in 2005 and republished in All Mortal Flesh in 2009
“I think it was on the day of my father’s funeral that Mum seemed to come out of the fog she had been in for years. I don’t mean that she’d been a bad mother, just distant a lot of the time, doing all of the normal things for us but then looking out the window as if she was expecting somebody but nobody was there. She’d be putting a meal on the table and then she’d stop with a plate held high in the air like waiters do and she’d turn as if she’d heard somebody call her name.
“We got used to it and, when Sylvia and I had our own families, we forgot how vague she was. At Dad’s funeral Mum was different again though, like now she had an important task to do and had to get the funeral out of the way as quickly as possible. Sounds terrible, I know, and I think she did love Dad but really they were like two polite people simply living in the same house, no fights or arguments really, just a life together in a straight line. Not like David and me.
Mum said she needed a break after the funeral and Uncle Geoff offered her the holiday house down at Edgetown.I helped her pack and drove her down the coast.
“She was talkative that day, as excited as a child going on a long trip, which is what it turned out to be I guess. But then as I was kissing her goodbye, she looked at me in this funny way and said: ‘Kathy, I’m determined to find him, you know. And I will.’ I thought she was talking about Dad and I was already in a hurry to get to the supermarket before I picked Angela up from school. Now of course I wish I had asked her what she meant. It might have made a difference in the end.”
Holy Mary mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. You’re a mother so you should know what it feels like even though you listen but don’t say much. Poor Brian didn’t understand while he was alive but he might now. A huge iron gate slowly clanged shut when he said to me: ‘I’m sorry Margaret but it just wasn’t meant to be and I don’t want to talk about it any more.’ I could see Brian slowly disappearing down a long path walking away from me as he said those words. I guess the funeral was the last phase. Now I’m free to search for my baby at last.
Margaret Cantalina walked down the long curve of the beach and watched a long curtain of diaphanous rain on the horizon and the smudge of a boat leaving the Heads. Her heavy boots sank into the wet, mirrored sand where blue sky and clouds appeared under her feet. She had entered an altered world where sky was underfoot as well as overhead; she was floating between two worlds.
Small things now seemed important, clues perhaps for her search. A tiny feather blew along the sand and there were trails of gull feet etched into the wetness. There was a smell, too, like burning bush in the air but it was winter, after all. She pulled the thick coat more tightly around her bony shoulders and turned up the collar.
Dear Mother Mary, I’ll never forget seeing those first few drops of spotting blood that made me think something was wrong. I’d had the backache before when I had Katherine so I didn’t take much notice of that. The tiny drops were scarlet on the whiteness; then came the cramps, sudden and sharp at first, then in waves that doubled me up until I felt I was riding on a river of pain. Brian phoned Dr Wickens. He said I was to rest with my legs elevated and call him in the morning. The cramps nailed me to the bed all night, my pelvis was a chalice of blood and I felt if I moved it would spill. It did spill of course and I lost him, my five months foetus and only as big as my hand. Dr Wickens came in the morning and asked me first if I’d ‘passed the tissue.’ Sounded as if he had a runny nose. Then the doctor said something like: ‘Look Margaret, losing a baby happens all the time, it’s unfortunate but fairly common. You can always try again.’ But it wasn’t like winning the lottery and I knew my baby had gone away forever. I did wonder where. I questioned you, Mary but you were silent —as usual. When Sylvia was born, Dr Wickens said: ‘There, Margaret doesn’t she make up for everything?’
As Margaret walked, she thought and hoped. The dunes crouched at the edge of the beach, embroidered with several shades of green, scuttling away from the sea, trying not to be noticed. Here and there were rubbery piles of yellow seaweed, bloated discarded corpses and soon the headland loomed, swathed with black rocks, silent, peaceful, a graveyard or an ancient battlefield. Margaret hurried her steps toward the rocks. It wasn’t like her own body moving though but the body of a stranger she was borrowing for the day.
Dr Wickins took you away, said he’d dispose of you. I never knew where. Father O’Keefe came to visit me the next day and said: ‘Margaret, you know it’s better that it happened now rather than later;’ and told me about Limbo. That’s where you went, he said. I looked it up later: ‘Limbo, the state or place where unbaptised babies and those who die in original sin are deprived of the Beatific Vision of God but share a perfect state of natural happiness.’ A long description for somewhere nobody’s ever been. Are you happy there? And where is this Limbo anyway?
I cried for three days but in the end Brian told me to ‘pull myself together,’ so I had to.
Losing you before birth was losing a dream and part of myself. Maybe God was testing me as a mother. I already had Katherine but I’d somehow failed this second test. Sometimes I thought you had been born but that you’d drowned in that lake where we used to walk the dog. I named you Christopher but didn’t tell Brian. Occasionally I heard you calling me, often late in the evening.
As Margaret approached the rocks, she felt she should take off her shoes. At first the headland appeared totally black but then she noticed some rocks were greenish-grey and shiny, washed silvery by sea and sunlight. She sat on a flat stone and took a closer look. They lay all about her, carelessly strewn by giant hands, spilling across the beach and into the sea. Some were honeycombed and others baked as if they had just come out of the oven and what had appeared in the distance to be a faceless pile, slowly changed into a group of individual rocks, some with little eyes and faces and half-formed limbs budding out of the formless mass. Here were curved forms with translucent skin and little tails becoming feet, some tiny enough to hold in the palm of the hand. This is Limbo.
“ I was doing research at the time on Edgetown Point. This area is part of a huge basalt plane and a fine example of what happens when volcanic lava flow hits the sea. The rocks are fascinating, particularly for the variety of contorted shapes caused when they were expelled from the nearby Mt Limbus many thousands and thousands of years ago. I was collecting specimens when I noticed this older woman wandering on the beach. What did seem a bit strange was how she would stop occasionally and lay her head against one of the rocks as if listening and then move on. Eventually we met and she asked me lots of questions, how it all came to be there, and so far from Mt Limbus. I was quite happy to tell her what I knew —I never mind an audience when it’s about vulcanology anyway— and she was happy to listen. It pleased her somehow. She thanked me in the end and I saw her every day during the week while I was there but she never spoke to me again, just kept putting her head up against each rock and saying something. I guess I should have paid more attention as it did strike me as a bit peculiar at the time.”
Margaret came every day to the rocks and soon felt as if she knew each by name, each a tiny unformed foetus waiting for the Beatific Vision to rescue them from this cold seashore. Some days as she sat and talked to her children a little white bird would appear, startling against the black of the rocks, and she wondered if this were the Vision. The bird told her that, no, he wasn’t the Vision but, yes, this was Limbo, that is to say ‘Limbus puerorum’, the Limbo of infants where all the unbaptised babies were waiting for the end of the world. The bird agreed with Margaret that it would be cruel of God to keep babies here forever as punishment for Original Sin.
“On July 25th the body of Margaret Cantalina was found floating in a rock pool on the Edgetown headland. It is the conclusion of this coroner’s court that Mrs Cantalina got into difficulties after slipping and falling into the rock pools and drowned on the incoming tide. No foul play is suspected. The court also strongly recommends that signage be erected by the Edgetown Council to warn visitors of the dangers of the rocks.”
Dear Mother Mary, I’ve found my baby and all of the other waiting babies, calcified, unformed, rejected, tiny, tiny lives waiting to be rescued, swimming in the rock pools with their sprouting gills, waiting for the Vision, little voices calling, watch me, watch me, mummy, and darting through the water, falling asleep between the rocks and no mothers calling them home before dusk. I can lie here with all the babies with their soft green and black skin nestling in the rock pools. I can keep them company until the Vision comes.
Mates – Highly Commended in 2002 Words in Winter and republished in All Mortal Flesh in 2009
Saturday 4-15pm
Round at the old footy oval at Bitjarra two magpies are down-hoping from the top of an old curly-drop-bark tree. A couple of pie crusts just too close to the crowd rah-rah-rahing the steamy-sweat players fighting for the ball.
Slidy-slip they go. Pump-pump the big legs leaping for the ball.
Bitjarra Eagles ahead St Sebastian’s by two goals at the Soldiers Memorial oval.
Tired old lest-we-forget digger leans on bronze bayonet. He’ll be watching these games forever. Let’s hope he likes football.
‘C’arn y’oll poofter.’ Beer-sloshing tinnie waving in the air.
Hush-hushing crowd turns on the man. That’s Michael Handley leaping through the big-boy pack. Thot-crack.Here is hero-stuff. Mad bad-mouthing of Michael not allowed here. Bad bad.
Toot-toot-toot shout the car horns. He’s got another goal their boyo.
Can-do-no-wrong Michael fresh from two seasons with the Sydney Swans. He was kick-kick-kicking in the big smoke, run-jump-catching for the city-slicker crowd when crack went his knee. Big man falling like a shock-felled tree. Big man digger-carried by his mates. Sharp-fast sliding in a look-out ambulance to the doors of St Vinnie’s. Windy-wavy-opening then down-sliding to the chop-chop-chopping surgeon, Mister-to-you Morgan. End of the season, end of the big-time for this boyo.
Does he mind?
Drill-drill-drill let’s, into Michael’s mind as he leap-runs up and down Bitjarra Soldier’s memorial oval.
Run-run-running me I love here in Bitjarra. No more the big-time thanks. Close that door. Too much shit-hassle this big-time. Leave me the fun-running with mates here now.
Hi, there’s my Maureen (nursy-nurse) on the side-line wave-slaving two children now. What a post-op surprise that was. Prising open drug-filled eyes to see this wifey-wife. Slippery-glide down the aisle of love. Side by side. Who would have thought? Then little Sarah, followed by a boy. First just me and then there were four. All lined up in our little town.
Now here’s old-mate-grade-one Paul puffing for the ball.
Siren end-sounding. Eagles’ fans up-down-jumping. Change-room time now. God, god let me off this worry in the showers. Pub-after game is enough for me. I don’t need shower-towel hassle in the change rooms. Steam-worry-time too much for me. Worry-worry what will they see? This secret is just for me. If word got out, this headlined boyo would be down the gurgler without a shout.
Big vomit time now in the jakes. Fear-vomiting on the sideline not on for heroes.
Saturday 6pm.
Matey-mates back-slapping happy at The Soldiers Arms.
‘Didja-sees’ air-colliding with beery ‘jeez’. Smoky incense and reconstructed knees offer prayers to the footy-god. Oh jeeze and let-it be’s. Utes in the car park and ‘didja-hears’ mate-mating in the front bar. ‘Make that two beers, please.’
Topless barmaid jokey-joke number fifteen ha’-ha’s around their ears. Bit rich Paul thinks old altar-boy Mick. Still he’s had a few now. Pissed in the front bar, pissing out the back.
Paul’s lonely overnight-Ute in the car park again. Big solid Mick-arms around this old mate. No worries-burden this grade-one mate. Wifey-wife Maureen late-shifting again and kids baby-sat at mum and dad’s.
Mick’s Ute bumpy-bumping its pot-holed way to Paul’s old-farmhouse. A full moon netted by criss-crossed peppercorn trees. Heart netted too.
Tell us the pissed thoughts of Mick’s old matey-mate?
Headlights high-beam these solid old trees. Saturday night pukes all the way home. Same old tune on these black ‘n white keys. But Sydney-song calls with a louder tune. Sung by a black-starched nun from school-time days. Rap-rap-rapping the ruler-tune on piano top.
‘You can do better than this.’
Clair de luning my way through these years. Or ‘Fur Elise’ just for a change.
‘Just plonk-plonking your way through these kid-easy tunes.’ Just air-on-a-G-stringing my way through lazy Bitjarra days. Or big-timing in Sydney on scholarship days. Could have.
Even clap-clapping my way round the world. Should have.
Mick had his moment but I’m still here. Why, why why? My heart trapped in headlights. Doesn’t stand a chance.
Sunday 11am.
Nursey-nurse Maureen lined up with the kids. Sarah, little Paul and hubby at the end, sing-singing Sunday morning away. Down on the organ big Paul pump-pumps out shepherds and Lords. The priest’s on the altar, God’s in heaven, the roast in the oven and all’s in its right place. But Maureen’s think-thinking of love.
Big-city girl just a few years ago. Shop til you drop and dance til you die. Mother still warning as I walked out the door. ‘No country-bumpkin dear. You’ll shrivel and die but we’re here for you still.’ Mothers know some things but never them all. Now planted in Bitjarra and watered by Mick, I’ve put out my fruit and it’s here that I’ll stay. Only lightning-shock now could split through this trunk. Growing these saplings is enough for we two.
Sunday evening 9pm.
Mick is head-bent, hell-bent over his desk. Sunday night rake-raking through his accounts. Hope-adding columns on left and on right. Hope-wishing the numbers to be black and not red. Four mouths to feed now, not just one. And that other pair of eyes watching his moves. Gotta be ready for the next big job.
Tomorrow’s a big one at Delaney’s old house. Re-wire the lot from bottom to top. Just the mother there now that the children have fled. Sydney lights in their eyes as they hope-vaulted from school.
Sydney-dreams for Mick too when he’s alone like this.
Bitjarra or Sydney. Either or, either or.
But will he be abandoned by his good mate Paul?
Bitjarra for Mick now for better or worse. Mother-words still fill his head. ‘You’ve made your bed so lie in it now.’ Which bed was the question that keeps him awake? The glass and the bottle his bedmates tonight. A whisky-warm feeling spreads in his stomach. Settles the panic. Dulls the guilt.
He left his Maureen in bed for this quick drink. But it’s her need in the night that makes him a man. That need reaching out where his body should have been. Just Mick and the whisky for now and the phone near his hand. Will it call him tonight? Will it call him again? It fills the whole room. Will it ring in his head, will it ring in the room? It gobbles all the air. Not enough for him to breathe.
The keys on the table. The Ute in the yard. I need to drive back to that pot-holed dream. To gather all my bits into one. If I can, if I can.
Christ take me back to that moment of power, to the time it first happened. Like a light was switched on inside my head. Power-surge plus.Let my mind and my body travel down that tunnel again. Back to those school changerooms after the match. We won that first game, were mates arm-in-arm. The boys in the showers, the steam in our hearts. The shouts of us winning. Paul then before me appears through the steam. Strips off his shorts and laughs at my face. The liniment smell, the steam in our eyes. I remember it all. Like an incense ascending for this god of my dreams. This shock-swell feeling bursting inside me. He was naked before me and the world in my hands. I wanted it all not just what God had written down.
Hopeless and buggered I knew from the start but wow what a blast. Felt the chains go round me right from the start. In my spin-spin-spinning head that one door opened, the others slammed shut. Bad, bad trip for altar-boy Mick.
My head in a vice, my heart in a trap.
No air in this room. Get out of this place.
Sunday 11pm.
Boobok owl waits for a mouse. Knows too much about a longing for love and razor-claw death. Watches Mick’s Ute as it floats down the track. It stops in a clearing by his big ragged gum. A spotlighting moon caresses each bird-feather in place. Precise for the bird. But curtains for the mouse. Silence can be cruel when we know the result.
Crack-crack goes Mick’s gun. It’s for spotlighting with mates. The boom-shocked owl suddenly sucked into night. This time an escape for the mouse.
Friday 3pm
St Sebastian’s Church
Mick was my friend right from the start. Lunch-swapping mates in the schoolyard. That first day at school, all the kids picked on me. Big Mick to my defence. Nose running blood. Nuns’ veils in flight. A kept-in-after-school kind of friend was he.
This Bitjarra boy fixed all the wires. Like a big strong gum over Maureen and the kids. Mate-love, husband-love, father-love all rolled into one. Brother-love too at least for me. So why didn’t we see? The storm that was coming. Smell lightning in the air. Perhaps we didn’t love him enough. Now he’s gone away. What more can I say?
Paul wraps sweet Purcell music round these echoing heads. A farewell of sorts —When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create
No trouble in thy breast.
Remember me, oh remember me, but forget my fate.
With drooping wings ye Cupids come,
And scatter roses on her tomb,
Soft and gentle as her heart.
Keep here your watch and never part.
sings Dido for her lost love. Still weeps for her dead Aeneas.
While down at the oval the two magpies quarrel-share the pie crusts at last. And matey-mate digger still weeps bronze tears for another lost mate.
Two great stories, John. Although I had read them both years ago, in “All Mortal Flesh”, they were a pleasure to re-read just now.