Red

Sometimes, when I can’t think of anything to write about, I choose a colour, then just sit down and write whatever comes into my head. For me, colours have personalities, sometimes displaying different sides of their characters. Red is a good example of this.

RED

Passion, fire, love and hate

she’s totally consuming;

demands our full attention.

Birds see red and head for food

in Eucalypts, Callistemons

Grevilleas and more.

Man brings roses, long and red

to woo his mate,

adding hearts, painted red

on cards that say

‘I love you.’

But when love dies

and hearts turn cold,

their faces, red with anger,

reveal the pain, the loss they bear,

as love can turn to hate.

In the hearth the fire glows

with flames that give red heat

to warm the home

and comfort lonely hearts

On summer days when temperatures

are way above the norm,

the sight, the smell and sound of flames

flash warnings –

This red is hell.

Transported

This short story received an award and was published in the Stringybark Times Past collection in 2020. All stories for the competition had to be based on historical facts. These are mine:

On 26th January1788, the First Fleet, under Captain Arther Philip, sailed into Sydney Cove and claimed the land for Britain. Eleven ships arrived at Botany Bay between the 18th and 20th January but the area was deemed unsuitable for settlement. Convicts were kept on board the ships until they were moored in Sydney Cove. Three ships carried female convicts. I have imagined that day, as seen through the eyes of one female prisoner. History tells us little about the comvicts. I have given at least one of them, the hope for a better life in New South Wales.

.TRANSPORTED

Creeping from their holds, the convicts breathe in fresh, salty air, untainted by the vomit, sweat, urine and faeces of their cramped pens. They gaze on a land of strangely shaped trees with white trunks and leaves that point to the ground. Chests swell as these scarred creatures catch a glimpse of new possibilities. Men and women, discards from the land of their birth, face lives that must be better than the ones they’ve left behind. At least that is what they hope for on this morning, the 26^th January, 1788.

One young woman stands out in this heaving mass. Around her the pristine surfaces of polished wooden decks and brass bells are the antithesis of filthy flesh and tattered rags.

She, too, wears ragged clothing but her eyes are bright, her cheeks still have a pinkish glow. Her fingernails are blackened and her hair, once the copper-coloured beacon that inflamed men’s desires, now hangs in matted clumps around her shoulders. She pouts a kiss at the first mate as he approaches the female prisoners. He’s her best chance.

No fraternizing with the convicts. Was that the regulation? He’d ignored it, as had all the others. The herd was checked over every night, the toss of any small object determining who won the juiciest piece of tits and arse and soft, bruised thighs. Ripe and over-ripe the women became as the journey continued for months and months of baking sun and blue sea. While tempests raged the women had a rest. No time for frolicking when the crew had ropes to pull and sails to fasten in the gut-wrenching fury of ocean and sky.

But today they’ve arrived. Well, not all of them. Josie, who made gloves for wealthy Londoners and got caught stealing a pair, went overboard on one of those black cloud days. And Betsy—quiet, fifteen year-old Betsy—had simply melted away amongst the rotting potatoes and stench of shit. Some of the women were pregnant, even before they left England. A few babies survived and after all the goings on during the voyage, the population in this new land should soon increase.

Today the sky is clear, the bluest blue that any of them have ever seen and the shoreline is clean and welcoming. Every female prisoner on that ship wants to stand at the railing, to suck in the unpolluted space of this strange new land; a land that will become home and the chance of a new, better life.

“Get ‘em below!” The captain bellows across the deck.

Whips crack and boots crunch on unprotected limbs as the two-legged animals are herded back to their rightful place. A slatted grating squashes hopes and wistful fantasies.

Except for that bright-eyed woman. The faded red of her skirt tucked around her legs, arms wrapped across her chest, she squats down behind the capstan.

The crew—in their tired uniforms, still flashing buttons and stripes in the right places, but with everything else coming apart at the seams and fraying at the edges—rush about, anxious to finish their duties and get off this crate of junk, human and otherwise.

She’s safe for the moment. Has she the courage to look up? Dare she pray for a different kind of life? Is there any point in praying to a God who never listens, who doesn’t seem to care for the likes of her?

She smells the captain’s leather boots. Mouse-like, she trembles. Tucking her head into the folds of her skirt she hopes, like a child, that if she doesn’t look she won’t be seen. Her heart drums so loudly she’s sure he can hear it.

His heels click together. His hand is rough on her bare arm, but he only tugs her firmly, not wrenching bone from socket, which she has come to expect. His fingernails dig into her flesh when she tries to pull away.

Her head stays low. She’s learnt not to lift her eyes in these situations. That’s okay when they want her body, when she feels the heat of their lust and knows that, despite her insignificance, she can still sting. He’s not one of them. His woman is with him on this piece of his world. She can’t play with this one; can’t taunt him and trade her flesh, her youthful, warm furriness, for an extra morsel or moment of freedom.

He yells to an underling, loosens his grip and passes her, like an unwashed rag, to the lackey. Vigorously, he wipes his hand on his trousers, removing her taint from his lordliness and stomps away as the grating is lifted and she’s flung down below.

Others move away as she lands. There’s no sympathy when jealousies are all about the next meal or the scrap of floor where you sleep. She is the officer’s pet. She won’t get anything, not even a helping hand, from her fellow prisoners.

Sitting on the floor, she rubs her right ankle which twisted as she fell. The pain is not too bad. She should be fine by nightfall, able to ply her wares again. A naughty smile puckers her lips. The captain likes her—anyone else would have been flogged.

Pretending meekness, she stays on the floor, eyes closed, spirit floating away to the scribbly, ragged trees and the clean water lapping the shore.

Others may drop out along the days, but she will make it. There’s room for her to grow out there and plenty of men who want what she knows how to give. Willingly she’ll fulfil their desires, but they will have to pay. She’ll stash away their trinkets, grow in power, and one day, when her time of serving is over, she’ll build herself a fortress, lock up her heart and none of them will be able to hurt her again.

Go North Young Man

In 2020 I recieved a ‘Highly Acclaimed’ for this little memoir which I had entered in the Scribes Writers Prose Competition. It’s part of the series I’ve written (and am still writing) about our time at Exmouth.

During 2021 I concentrated on writing, editing and publishing Child of the War Years which many of you have read. That didn’t allow much time for writing anything else.

With the new year rapidly approaching, and the move to my new house now behind me, I can get to work on a couple of novels that have been languishing in old files. As that will take a lot of time and effort, and because I want to remind you, my readers, that I am still alive and attempting to get words onto the page/screen, I thought I’d begin by posting this. I changed the names for the competition, but it is a true story.

GO NORTH YOUNG MAN

Several times during the night I stirred from dreaming to see eerie lights wandering across the landscape ahead of us. Near dawn a twisted tree trunk, like something from a Grimm’s fairytale, appeared beside me—the scraping of its branches against the window jolted me awake. We had come to a halt, front wheels pointing skywards, rocks all around us and no sign of a road.

‘We’re lost. We’ll die of dehydration.’ I couldn’t hide the terror in my voice.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ my husband, Graham, growled. ‘The road must have washed away in a recent downpour and the grader hasn’t reached this far.’

He clambered out of the car to investigate the situation. ‘It’s a creek bed; dry at the moment, but we could dig for water if necessary,’ he said as he got back in. ‘Don’t worry; we’ll soon be out of here.’

How our Holden station wagon managed to negotiate those rocks I’ll never know, but in about fifteen minutes we were on our way again. Baby David and three year old Penelope were still asleep on the inflatable mattresses which covered our belongings in the back of the vehicle—twin-tub washing machine, playpen/cot, kitchenware, linen, clothes, toys, several books and food for two weeks.

As the sun rose, I looked around at flat, red-brown earth; tough, yellow-brown grasses edging the track; a sky free of clouds; not a tree or a trace of greenery in any direction. I love Australia, and at our wedding I’d said that I would love him forever, but I didn’t know if my vows could stretch to include this almost barren landscape. I said nothing and hoped for better as we continued heading north.

Near Exmouth we passed a beach which looked inviting—water of the deepest blue, gentle waves licking the shore. There was no time to stop but I was promised a swim the following Sunday. At six thirty we drove into the caravan park and parked beside our new home.

Stunned, I couldn’t open the door. Caravans and vehicles, all bearing scars, were dumped in a clearing in the desert-like scrub. I’d lived in a caravan in the bush before, but this looked like a refugee camp. Neither of us said anything as Graham unloaded children and belongings into the annexe, while I unpacked boxes to make breakfast. He drove off before it was ready, saying he’d eat at the camp.

Baby was soon asleep again in the playpen inside the caravan. Penelope, our adventurous three year old, wanted to explore. I found crayons and paper and set her up at the table while I tried to find a home for our kitchenware and food.

Determined to have the place organised by evening, I opened the first of our cases after wiping off the pindan. Sheets, towels, clothes—every item inside every case sent layers of red-brown dust into the air as I shook them.

At eight o’clock I had the washing machine filled with water heated by our electric plunger. The power went off.

‘Damn! How long will this last?’ Having just arrived, I didn’t think knocking on the neighbouring van was a good idea.

‘Penelope. Mummy’s going to the laundry. You stay inside and mind David.’

What a shock—used tampons dropped on the toilet floor, brown stained paper left in a corner and fear seeping out of grey concrete walls. Hatred and despair hung around that place of intended cleanliness. Terrified of germs leaping at me from every surface, I tried not to touch anything, holding door handles with my skirt and not daring to wash any part of me in the basins. The showers too, were a nightmare of disease ridden horror. I vowed to wear thongs when I had to use them, and to hang my clothes and towel over the smallest possible surface so that a minimum of other women’s grubbiness would affect them.

I didn’t get as far as the laundry that day, but hurried back to the van, determined that my daughter would use the potty and baby’s bath in the safety of our confined space.

At ten o’clock, with electricity running for an hour, I had sheets washed and hung on ropes installed by the previous occupants. By five the caravan and annexe looked almost like home. I washed the children in David’s baby bath, shook their pyjamas again and dressed them. By six, fed and falling asleep, I had them both tucked up in our bed. Once we were ready for bed, Penelope would sleep on a built-in seat beside the table and David’s cot would sit in the middle of the van.

My man had been awake for two days and a night. He arrived back at the caravan at about six thirty, hot and pindan streaked. We kissed lightly and he went off to shower while I served our dinner. In clean shirt and shorts, he joined me at the table after checking on his cherubs and kissing them goodnight.

Outside, we heard men and women yelling at children and each other. From the van closest to us came swearing of a kind I’d not heard before, as the man threw his son, aged about eight, down the steps and his wife hurled abuse at the boy.

Hearing the boy’s screams, we raced outside, almost falling over each other in our haste. My husband took one look and, pushing me ahead of him, hopped back inside and locked the door. We stood facing each other, dismayed and dumbstruck.

Living so close, we couldn’t shut out the surrounding rabble or protect our babies from their obscenities. The tears I had tried so hard to hold back all day burst the banks of my eyes. So much we had promised each other, so many expectations that were impossible to fulfil. How could I survive in that God forsaken place?

Goodbye Home

It’s such a long time since I posted anything here because I’ve been getting ready to move house. I’ve found a beautiful new place, not far away, in a former orchard where I used to play. This, my current home, has been good to me and I’ve had great pleasure in creating the garden, so I have written my farewell in a poem.

Goodbye Home

Widowed and lonely,

old house sold and nowhere to call home,

I found you.

Timber ceilings and earthy bricks

greeted me beyond your solid wooden door.

I saw potential in your spaces,

imagined paintings on your walls

and curtains on your windows.

Outside, I envisaged the garden

I would plant and come to love.

In your kitchen of jarrah and stone

I’ve cooked for many or just for me.

Music and laughter filled your space

when friends and family came to visit.

On my own, in quiet times,

I’ve treasured the silence

sometimes broken with bird song.

Looking out of the study window

I’ve been inspired to write –

stories, a memoir and tales of travel;

the ups and downs of life

sometimes melded in a poem like this.

Now it’s time to leave you

and the garden I’ve created,

to take with me the memories

of parties, Christmases, barbecues on the verandah

and peaceful moments with my lover.

So many photographs of this garden

in winter, autumn, summer and spring

I have to cherish and to inspire the next one,

much smaller, but ready and waiting

for the mad keen gardener in me.

Reviews for CHILD OF THE WAR YEARS

Hi Vicki

I have finished reading your book “Child of the War Years”.

This is a thoroughly entertaining and candid expose of what life was like for you in those years. At times hilarious and other times sad, it evoked many memories of my own childhood and the times spent with your family. Your writing style means that this book should be enjoyed by all who read it, whether or not they know the characters.

Love Greg

Thankyou for such a great read + inviting us to your book launch. I initially intended to read it all in one day which would be easy because it is so engrossing. I have since realised it is like a fine wine to be savoured at the end of the day. I am so grateful for the memories you are sharing. It is special to read about my Pop (John) who I loved but never really knew eg; his curry. Also, it makes me realise that families growing up in rentals is not new. You are truly an inspiration – accolades again Vicki

Launch of my memoir.

Me signing books that guests had purchased.

Katharine Susannah Prichard Writers Centre in Greenmount, was rocking by 3pm last Sunday. Guests started arriving half an hour ahead of the planned opening time, so keen were they to be a part of the launch of my third book, ‘CHILD OF THE WAR YEARS.’

Parking is limited at the centre, but we were lucky to avoid rain and once inside the cosy, historical house, everyone quickly found old and new friends and family to chat with.

Many of my friends helped, heating and serving food, making sure everyone had a wine, soft drink, coffee or tea. They also cleared up afterwards. Music from the 1940s added to the atmosphere and the borrowed microphopne system ensured that everyone could hear us.

Grandson, Andrew, introducing me.

One of the nice things about being old (I’m eighty) is that my grandchildren are all adults and one of them, Andrew, was happy to introduce me and then conduct an interesting, entertaining interview.

This is an extract from his introduction: Everyone here today knows that nothing’s off the cards with Vicki. Just like in real life when you ask her how her dating life is going, her memoir also goes into salacious, explicit detail will all things romance. You might notice that I’m looking a little concerned at this point, wondering what secrets from my past he was about to reveal, but he continued with ‘At one point in the book there’s a particularly eye-watering passage about a nun trying to teach sex-ed.’

As the interview progressed, I had to read from this passage, much to everyone’s amusement. Here is a part of that reading:

‘In Holy Matrimony a man and a woman are joined together in a bond of love, to support each other and to fulfil God’s laws, which include having children. A man’s desires make him want to have sex with his wife and she, as a loving, obedient wife, must willingly oblige him.’
That part didn’t exactly thrill me, especially the ‘obedient wife’ bit, but as the lesson progressed and I learnt about various bodily parts that were to be involved in this transaction, I thought it sounded rather fun. Of course I had to pretend to be interested purely in an analytical way, but couldn’t wait to discuss the possibilities with Denyse and Margaret.

Please email me at vicwinmiz@gmail.com if you would like to purcahse a copy. They are only $15 plus postage. I will post a couple of reviews next, so you’ll see that this story is interesting and entertaining.

If you have read it aleady, please add your review in the comments.

The Snowden Ancestry

Martha Rouse Snowden (nee Gardiner) was my great grandmother. This photo shows her almost smiling, not like the photo that hung over the fireplace in Granny and Pa Snowden’s house in Subiaco. I was frightened of the woman in that photo and was always on my best behaviour when in that room. She and Christopher Snowden senior arrived in Australia in 1857, making us fourth generation Australians. Pa, the youngest of their five children, was born in Victoria in August 1875, after the sudden death of his father. Having to raise those children on her own would have been difficult. No wonder she grew to look stern and cross.

Pa, the younger Christopher Snowden, was something of a rebel in the family. On leaving school he was articled to an architect, but instead of finishing his training, he moved to Western Australia and worked for much of his life in clerical positions on the railways.

He was a pacifist, refusing to fight in the first world war. Consequently, he got the ‘white feather’ treatment which affected him badly and led to excessive drinking. However, by the time I was born, this was no longer a problem. He was a very loving, caring father and grandfather.

The Willeys Tourer

Russell and me on the Willeys Tourer

In 1949 our father brought home the first car he bought after the post war years of petrol rationing and riding his bicycle to work. I’ll never forget the thrill of seeing this amazing machine suddenly arrive on our driveway. It was like something out of the movies; black and shiny, with big round headlights at the front; space for a large picnic basket at the rear; long, wide running boards for ladies to put one foot on and swing themselves up into the seats. There were two seats in the front and room for the three of us in the back. Russell and Susanne are not likely to remember as they were both still very young but, for me, that day meant we had ARRIVED. A Willey’s Tourer, it was the epitome of luxury in my opinion and my silly little brother and sister had better behave themselves if they wanted to sit beside ‘Princess Victoria’ as we went for our first drive. It was only around the block, but that was enough. I was nearly wetting myself with excitement.

During the summer break that year Dad hired a caravan and persuaded our mother that camping with three children would be great fun. Mum did nothing but complain and I didn’t blame her. We were near a beach, not a shady tree in sight, low scrub all around us and the ocean too far away for any of us to wander off and drown. It seemed isolated but I guess there must have been a toilet block and water supply nearby. They certainly didn’t come with that tiny van.

On the second day Dad drove off somewhere, leaving the three of us with Mum, who fell asleep. I decided to take the little ones for a walk so that their chatter wouldn’t disturb her. I realised that, in order to not get lost, I would need to keep the caravan in sight. Susanne was about two and a half—we couldn’t go far. I followed a track up a nearby hill, thinking it would be fun to look down on the ocean from the peak. We were almost to the top when I heard voices. Initially I didn’t register our names amongst the ‘Coo-ees.’ Russell pointed them out to me—men and women walking through the scrub towards us.

‘But we’re not lost, ‘I protested when the strange man reached us and informed me that my parents were terribly worried. ‘Look, I can see the caravan down there,’ and I turned around, intent on reaching the top of the hill.

Taking my siblings for a walk.

‘Vicki!’ Dad’s voice was loud, harsh and frightening.

My heart quivered as I scurried back down that track, dragging my sister by the hand and grumbling at Russell to keep up with me. I expected a spanking but nothing happened, apart from beers and soft drinks being offered to the strangers who found us.

We returned home the next day and camping with the family was never mentioned again.

CHILD OF THE WAR YEARS

‘CHILD OF THE WAR YEARS is my story from the age of about two until my fifteenth birthday. It’s the story that is probably similar for many West Australians born just before or during the years when our fathers went off to England to fight the Nazis for and with the ‘Mother Country.’

Some of the dads were fighting the Japanese in New Guinea, Malaysia and Singapore.

I was very fortunate to have a wonderful grandfather. For those first few years of my life, he was the father figure. My mother and I continued to live in the house that dad had built in Florest, but Pa regularly came to visit us or I stayed with him and Granny at their home in Subiaco. He cooked the best bacon and eggs and Granny taught me to make up stories.
This memoir also contains information about the generations who came to Australia from England and Ireland. Because of them, my siblings and I are forth or fifth generation Australians. Our great grandfather, Charles Mizen, left England, on his own at the age of sixteen. After moving from Brisbane to Sydney and Melbourne, he settled in Perth and established the first Mizen building business. His son, Oliver (our paternal grandfather) was also a builder – a very successful one, also in Subiaco. His four sons worked with him in the family business, Mizen and Sons. With all those building genes, you’d think I could at least hammer a nail in a piece of wood, but no, I missed those genes.

I just tried to work out how many descendents Pop (Oliver Mizen) has/had. It has to be more than fifty.

Come along to the book launch on May 30th and we’ll see if we can work that out.

Reaching Out: cont.

Here is the rest of the story which I gave you last week. It was written as a short story, but I wonder if it’s worth developing into something longer. What do you think?

As always, I appreciate your comments.

Reaching Out.

Slowly, she moves from the window. He notices the slight limp in her right leg. On the beach, walking on uneven sand, anyone’s feet could falter. When he had walked into the meeting room last Sunday, she was already seated. He was the first to leave, afraid that if anyone spoke to him the anguish, loss and loneliness would come spewing out.

‘Do you have children, Isabel?’ He tries to keep the conversation general, but how can he get to know her with silly chitchat?

She leans on the table before sitting down and places her mug on the coaster, which he leaves there these days.

Briskly, he gets up, remembering his manners. She does not seem like the sort of woman— those modern, liberated ones—who will object to the chair routine.

‘Thank you, I’m fine,’ she says and sits down.

He notices the twitch at the corners of her mouth. Got that right, he thinks and returns to his own seat.

They sip in silence for a while. She studies the books on shelves beside them. He pretends to watch the ocean, but can’t help glancing at this new friend, He likes the way she purses her lips in concentration.

‘Do you enjoy reading?’ She looks at him, then points to his wife’s collection.

He’s stumped. She’ll think him a Philistine. All that arty stuff—books, paintings, theatre, music—he left to Jess.

‘Well, yes, but not that kind of thing.’ He nods at the bookshelves. ‘I’m more into news, you know, the papers, television. I do a lot of research on the internet, find out what’s happening in the world.’ He hesitates, wanting to be honest but not reveal too much about himself.

‘My wife—she died, you know—she loved her novels. I’m no good at remembering names, but she could rattle off the latest prize winner or some new author she thought worth a try.’

He blinks away threatening tears. What’s wrong with me? Stop being an ass. This woman doesn’t want to know about Jess.

‘And what about you, Isabel? I guess you have favourite authors too?’

She takes another sip of coffee. ‘Yes, and I see that your wife—your late wife—and I have several in common. I still enjoy Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy. A bit soppy I suppose and certainly not a man’s choice.’

She looks directly at him, her fingers playing with the fabric of her skirt. ‘You asked if I have children. I don’t anymore. My daughter drowned in a neighbour’s pool when she was five years old. I have a son, but I never see him. He’s a drug addict.’ Her lips tremble and she turns away.

He wants to reach out, to give her his manly protection, but that, he’s been told, is not necessarily what the other person wants. He grips his hands together under the table. How can he help? What should he say? Is there anything he can say that might give this lovely woman some comfort?

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I try not to talk about it with strangers. Friends know how it upsets me, particularly Jamie. Vanessa was an accident. No-one’s fault, although of course I can’t forgive myself for not being more vigilant.’

She pulls a tissue from the pocket of her skirt and blows her nose. ‘Sorry,’ she says again, ‘perhaps you could tell me about you. Do you have children? Yes, of course you do.’ She stands up and walks to the clump of photos on the shelf above the television. ‘And I guess that’s your wife.’

He turns around and sees where Isabel is pointing. ‘Yes. Jess was killed in a road accident. Bloody truck, pardon my French, ploughed into her. She was on her way home from the ballet. It was a wet night, slippery road. The driver claimed he lost control, couldn’t do anything to avoid her.’

Isabel steps away from the photos and holds out her arms. He stumbles into her embrace, clasps her small, rounded body to his chest and lets the tears flow.