The Masked Transformer
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published by smashwords.com
Copyright © 2011 by Kurt Ulmer
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Disclaimer
This collection of short stories is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition License
This eBook is licensed for your personal use. It is not licensed for resale, or for giving away to others. If you want others to enjoy it, please buy additional copies. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
The Masked Transformer
“Make me a mask, mask maker.”
Don’t you know a good mask takes time? Vertucci wants to shout, especially at the impatient ones. And the cheapskates. Go up the road. Buy one. Cheap from the Propshop.
Vertucci, quite unashamedly, assesses the gentleman for that’s what skilled mask makers do. The customer is in his 30’s, navy pinstripe suit, nicely fitted around the shoulders. Vertucci knows the style: ready-to-wear, made in Singapore but expensive cloth. The gentleman travels? White shirt (ah, we want to look conservative), nice plain blue silk tie. Clothes maketh the man. Pleasant manner, soft voice. Even features, clean shaven and a slight tan. Tall, lean with modern cut hair. The corners of the man’s mouth trouble Vertucci. He has seen lips like that.
The man repeats the request, quietly assertive and adds, “Please.”
“What is the occasion?” Vertucci enquires.
“Business,” is the reply. “Negotiations.”
“Good masks take time,” Vertucci declares.
“A week?”
Vertucci nods in agreement and says:
”$200 and I need photos.”
Vertucci beckons the customer to a chair, then pushes aside a curtain and reappears a moment later with a camera and tripod. He takes his customer’s head and shoulder shot, left and right profile.
“I need a signature for the order book,” Vertucci requests.
The signature backs up Vertucci’s impression. Slight, right leaning up and down strokes. Nicely formed legible letters. The dot over the letter ‘i’ is precisely put. An agreeable person. Upright, nice, conventional, punctilious. Vertucci needs a word to sum up this man out to make a good first impression. Agreeable? Inoffensive? Accommodating? Amenable? Vertucci decides that Aaron Kingsley is amenable but the excessively long looped letter ‘y’ hints at secret appetites, excesses and overindulgences.
Vertucci explains the need for taking a cast of the sitter’s face in preparation for casting a latex mask from a plaster mould. Kingsley endures the inconvenience and discomfort of ….. a death mask? He shudders at the thought. Vertucci notices his customer’s reaction and smiles.
“Most people react like you did at the thought of a death mask. It’s not a premonition,” Vertucci promises. He cleanses Kingsley’s face.
“Have you considered a style for your mask?”
“I won’t be wearing it,” Kingsley replies. “Make mine like the one on the counter.”
“This one?” Vertucci asks and hands him the mask to try.
“Perfect.”
Vertucci rubs his hands in anticipation of the challenge as Kingsley walks out the door. He prints three portraits in colour and pins them to his workshop corkboard. The material for the mask is a simple choice: latex over a silk lining for stiffness and comfort. He waits until closing time and pours a plaster mould. He puts it on a shelf to dry and makes a second mould, an archive copy. He studies Kingsley’s face while the plaster dries.
Vertucci is a master at catching snapshots of emotions and transforming them into frozen impressions. Kingsley’s mask could be a caricature, a parody perhaps of a negotiator’s face. Not a gambler’s poker face, for it would be off-putting to others with whom Kingsley has to negotiate. It has to be the quintessential face of a negotiator. That’s Vertucci’s challenge.
The following morning, he sculpts Kingsley’s plaster face. He smoothes over the turned down corner of the left side of the mouth. That erases the smirk, the disapproving mien, the derisory upside down smile. The condemnation and contempt look born out of criticism vanishes under his skilled fingers. Vertucci has seen such traits in his older brother, a victim of abuse. A slightly widened smile gives the mask an impression of mild approval. Vertucci then erases the deep, steep furrow between the eyebrows to remove an expression of questioning and doubt. Shaving of eyebrows widens the gap between them and strips the face of anger. The negotiator would have to avoid a frown.
Vertucci beholds the face of an open, receptive, willing and agreeable man. A slight lowering of eyebrows and a hardly noticeable squint adds a suggestion of scepticism. He casts a latex mask, then another and adds colour to make it a lifelike image.
Kingsley likes the mask. It was just what he needs and he knows exactly how to use it. He wants to become a better negotiator with the help of a mask. Vertucci wonders: could a mask make the man? Hardly! A mask serves as a harmless disguise at a carnival. Kinky sex people like masks. Vertucci also supplies leather, masks and other paraphernalia for people into private pleasures and diversions Vertucci understands. What is Kingsley’s poison?
“Make me a mask, mask maker.”
“Mr. Kingsley. How nice to see you!”
Vertucci shakes Kingsley’s proffered hand. It is a firm grip, not cold, not hot, just a pleasant touch. He waits for Kingsley to make the next move.
“Make me another, mask maker. Please.”
“So you are you happy with the first mask?”
Kingsley nods. “Yes, it worked a treat.”
“The occasion, this time?”
“Business. On-going matters of ah…..dominance, I guess. A display of power.”
“A power mask. Quite a challenge. Raw power? Or a more subtle show of authority?”
“Mr. Vertucci, you understand me so well. Authority. I like the sound of the word.”
“Power invites challenges, even rebellion. You might prefer to have a person’s acceptance rather than obedience?” Vertucci wants to know.
“Authority with acceptance. A steel hand in a velvet glove,” Kingsley agrees and looks very pleased with what Vertucci would design for him.
“A leader just the same.”
Vertucci again takes three photos and dates them. Kingsley’s face has changed since the first mask. Not aged but different. He retrieves Kingsley’s first mask from the archive and lays it next to the new photos on the bench.
“Mamma mia,” he whispers and his hands tremble as he pins up the new snapshots. Vertucci makes the power mask as specified and a copy for his collection.
Kingsley examines the new mask and congratulates Vertucci.
“Thank you mask maker. Is this real ivory?” He wonders as he strokes the handle of Vertucci‘s latest creation.
“Alas, no. In the past maybe. But now we make do with a substitute,” Vertucci explains. “I can fit an old ivory knife or fork handle but it will not sit in your hand as comfortably as this one.”
“It will be fine Mr. Vertucci, thank you very much,” Kingsley says and hands him his credit card.
“Thank you Mr Kingsley for your custom. At your service anytime,” Vertucci answers.
“It will be a while, I imagine,” Kingsley says, picks up his mask and leaves.
I don’t mind if you never come back.
“Make me another mask, mask maker,” Kingsley orders with a smile.
“Mr. Kingsley, how are you? It’s been two years?”
“Nearly two and a half.”
“My, how time flies!”
Vertucci disappears behind the curtain to collect his photographic gear. He studies Kingsley from behind the one way mirror, a recent addition in response to security worries. Kingsley now wears a bespoke suit but not one tailored in Singapore. Shoes, shirt and tie look expensive, really expensive and must have come from the most exclusive London shops. Kingsley’s face is changed dramatically. There is no need to consult a copy of the power mask. The real thing stares him in the face. Charisma ! The power mask has transformed Kingsley more than he could ever have imagined. Vertucci sees- no, he feels even from a distance, the charm, the powerful magnetism of the persuasive personality the mask created. He imagines that people stop talking when Kingsley enters a room. Kingsley’s presence commands respect. People follow because they want to. A shiver runs down Vertucci’s spine at the thought of how Kingsley might use such a gift.
Vertucci returns with his camera and tripod and sets it up to take the portraits. Kingsley looks at him and Vertucci lets go of the camera.
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologise, Mr. Vertucci.”
“I don’t really need to take another photo,” Vertucci explains.
Kingsley smiles, Vertucci feels better and waits for his customer to make the next move.
“Make me a grief mask, mask maker,” Kingsley orders. “A mask to express my sorrow, pain and anguish at losing a partner.”
Vertucci wants to object, to question and argue. He wants to shout:
Who died? You don’t look sad. You show no grief. You plan to feel sorrow? You plan to mourn? Who is the partner about to die?
Vertucci turns his face away to avoid Kingsley seeing his disgust and anger. He fills in the order and with eyes turned down, turns the book around for Kingsley to sign.
That evening, Vertucci studies the shop video recording. It confirms that Kingsley has indeed transformed himself. There is no denying: The mask has made the person, improbably and incredibly so. Kingsley is the mask.
In a week, Kingsley would collect the grief mask. Someone is about to die. “Please God,” Vertucci prays,” Guide me. Let the mask cause no harm.”
Vertucci stays in the back room when Kingsley calls. The casual shop assistant hands Kingsley the wrapped mask. He opens the package, picks up the mask and holds it to his face. He studies himself in the mirror. Vertucci looks on in fascination. Kingsley moves the mask away and looks at the reflection in the mirror. He holds the mask in front of his face again for a moment. When he lowers the mask, Vertucci staggers away from the one way mirror to sit down. Kingsley has morphed his face into the grief mask. It has taken only moments for Kingsley’s face to act out, no not act out, to become a grief stricken man.
“What have I done? Please God, make him stay away. Please,” Vertucci implores.
Vertucci’s heart sinks when Kingsley comes back within the month. There is grief and sorrow on Kingsley’s face. You don’t fool me.
Vertucci makes eye contact and reaches for the order book.
“Make me a mask, mask maker,” Kingsley says. “The occasion I hear you ask?” There is a trace of sarcasm in Kingsley’s voice.
Vertucci just nods.
“I stand accused of murder,” Kingsley explains. “I am innocent.”
Vertucci writes in his book: “Innocence mask-ready in a week”.
He slides the order book across the counter for Kingsley to sign.
Vertucci closes the book, rests his flat hand on it and declares:
“There will be no more masks.”
Vertucci’s despairs when a Supreme Court jury acquits Kingsley of murder. Journalists and media commentators alike are united in their astonishment at the verdict. Admittedly, all the evidence is circumstantial but damning all the same. In the jurors’ eyes, Kingsley’s business partner of eleven years has perished in the outback, an unfortunate accidental death. There is no body, which might have persuaded the jury, many thought. But there is no doubt in Vertucci’s mind. None whatsoever-the mask has helped Kingsley beat the charge.
Vertucci goes to church for redemption. He has last been to confession 27 years ago at the time of his confirmation. He bears his penance gladly and lights five candles every morning for a month and puts Kingsley out of his mind for good- so he thinks.
Tuesdays are good days in the shop for making masks without too many interruptions. People who hire gear on a Friday or Saturday bring it back on Monday. There is little hire business during the week. Vertucci unlocks the shop and lets in a woman waiting under the awning, sheltering from the slight autumn drizzle. She waits politely while he puts away a dripping umbrella and turns on the lights.
“I need to know who made this mask,” she says and puts it on the counter.
“It is one of mine,” Vertucci admits.
“It is one of five my husband had.”
“I made five. This mask,” Vertucci picks it up,” Is the fifth one-the innocence mask.”
His face must have shown remorse for the woman says:
“Do not blame yourself Mr. …?”she looks at him.
“Vertucci, Salvador Vertucci, mask maker.”
“I am Veronica Kingsley, Aaron Kingsley’s widow.”
“Widow?” A shocked Vertucci exclaims and stops himself from wanting to know more.
“One moment, please.” Vertucci locks the shop door and reverses the Open sign. He beckons the widow to his private quarters.
“Coffee?”
The widow tells him of two shotgun blasts. One to Kingsley’s chest and the second one that blew away his face. The killer, the son of Kingsley’s partner, then had calmly rung the police and admitted to what he called “the execution”, a revenge killing for the murder of his father.
“I am sorry for your loss and the death of your husband’s partner,” Vertucci says with sincerity. ”I feel responsible for…”
“You are not to blame yourself for these events. Aaron, a long time ago, started out on a journey and not even I could alter his path.”
The mask maker hears of a young, happy, easy going man with driving ambitions. Kingsley had a major weakness: his emotions were plain for all to see. He had to learn to keep himself in check, to disguise his true feelings. He thought a mask, if he copied its expression long enough, might be the way to go. For hours at a time, he had held the negotiator mask in front of his face and copied what he saw in the mirror. He succeeded and soon was able to switch to what he called a “mode”. He liked the idea so much that he tried it again.
“That was the second mask. The power mask,” Vertucci interrupts.
“It worked for him. Too well in fact and he became a changed man,” the widow confides. “He became a different person and found it harder and harder to let go of the mode.”
“You know, I never thought it possible that a person could become the mask. Not without being a good actor as well,” Vertucci speculates.
“And a good actor he was, Mr. Vertucci,” she replies.
“I was worried when he asked me to make the grief mask,” Vertucci concedes.
“The power by then had gone to his head. He succeeded in most things he tried but Aaron felt that his partner was holding him back,” the widow reveals.
“I thought perhaps someone had died but who was I kidding,” rues Vertucci.
Mrs Kingsley continues her story and speaks of worries about her husband’s sanity. She had feared his violence at home. At work, frustrations about his partner’s risk averseness had turned to anger, then threats. Kingsley had talked his partner into an outback adventure to restore the close bond they once had. Witnesses in Broken Hill had noticed the two men arguing. Kingsley claimed that their Landrover had broken down off the beaten track and that his partner had chosen to stay with the vehicle whereas Kingsley had decided to walk out, as it turned out, to safety. His partner’s body was never found. Kingsley gained a massive key man insurance payout and control of the business.
His partner’s family accused Kingsley of murder and he was arrested and charged.
“He got off and I don’t know whether he was guilty or not. It really doesn’t matter now,” the widow says. “I want people to view the body.”
“I can help you there with a mask I made when your husband first came to see me,” Vertucci offers. “I can age it a little and the world would see the man you married.”
“I was hoping that you might have an answer. Would you do me a special favour and fit the mask?”
“It would be an honour Veronica. May I call you Veronica?”
“Of course,” she replies and blushes noticeably. She likes the way he says her name. Verroneecah.
“And you must call me Salvador.”
Two months after the funeral, on a Tuesday just before closing time, the widow goes shopping. Vertucci is in his workshop when the door buzzer alerts him. He is annoyed at getting a late customer but his face breaks into a smile when he sees her through the one-way mirror.
“Veronica, what a lovely surprise.”
“Salvador, how are you?”
“Good, good. Coffee?”
“Please. would be nice. Thank you.”
There is a self-conscious silence after they finish coffee. Vertucci notices Veronica’s glances at the many finished and work in progress masks in the workshop.
“Choose one,” he says.
“Thanks but I had something else in mind,” Veronica replies with a coquettish smile.
“Oh yes?” Salvador answers with a little smirk.
“Make me a mask, mask maker,” she requests.
Vertucci is crestfallen. Veronica is not flirting-it is business.
“That’s my job,” Vertucci says, much more matter-of-fact than intended. She notices the disappointment and lays her hand on his forearm to reassure him.
“I want to be a merry widow. Make me a merry widow mask, please Salvador.”
His frown turns into a broad smile.
“I need to know madam, the occasion. A masked ball perhaps. A dinner party?”
“You choose the occasion, mask maker,” Veronica replies.
“Such an invitation needs careful thought.”
Vertucci prepares to take her photograph.
“I have to see your bones.”
He enjoys touching her face and pushing her hair back. She enjoys the admittedly professional touch and his closeness. There is the scent of expensive aftershave. Salvador has manicured nails.
Veronica leaves the shop happy and in anticipation of …what she isn’t quite certain. Vertucci’s hand-made invitation comes in the mail and she replies with an elegant response card.
The waiter in the Trattoria Napoli ushers her towards a screened corner table.
“Thank you for coming. You are very punctual,” the man with a mask held in front of his face says.” I like that in a woman.”
Veronica likes the special touches. The flowers, the candles and the privacy.
“You are full of surprises and romantic touches, Salvador,” Veronica replies.” I like that in a man.”
There is a parcel on the table, wrapped in silk and tied with contrasting silk string. Veronica opens the parcel.
“That is a beautiful mask, thank you Salvador,” she says and blows him a kiss.
“It will suit you. Let me help.” Salvador holds her pocket mirror.
A masked Veronica studies her reflection and announces to the world:
“I am the merry widow.”
The waiter brings champagne. They toast each other and fingers touch.
The touch sparks a thought and Veronica recalls the Romeo and Juliet scene where the lovers hold hands and say:
Let lips do what hands do.
On an impulse, she picks up the mask, holds it by the handle and turns it towards Salvador. Two masks face each other and meet across the table and lips barely touch. This is the most erotic thing I’ve ever done Veronica admits to herself. The masks playfully withdraw and kiss again. A lingering kiss and their eyes say what masks say.
They look at each other in silence and dare not speak for fear of breaking the spell.
“This is the most erotic thing I’ve ever done,” Veronica whispers.
“This is totally new for me. I never imagined that my masks…. It is amazing what a mask can do for a man,” Salvador confesses.
“Me too. All over.”
“Waiter!”
“Coffee?”
“Yes. Two short blacks, please.”
“So tell me mask maker about the man behind your happy mask?”
“A simple man looking happiness,” Salvador replies puts the mask over his face to hide a big smile grin.
“How far have you looked?”
“Very near tonight,” he explains.
“Do you live far from here?” Veronica asks as she finishes her short black.
“Walking distance,” Salvador replies.
“Too far for a girl in high heels?” Veronica asks.” I brought sneakers just in case.”
“You look very elegant in high heels.”
Salvador puts the silk scarf around Veronica’s shoulder as the waiter opens the door.
“I had no idea,” Virginia says and hooks her arm under his and pulls him close. “How powerful masks can be.”
Martin goes Floundering
It was an offer too good to refuse. Martin invited me to go floundering. Because I had never been floundering before and because I like fish, I accepted. I knew what would happen next: irrefutable advice. Because Martin was a known quantity and when Martin gets involved, things can get complicated.
“Who was on the phone?” my wife asked.
“Martin.” I put the mobile in my pocket.
She looked at me as only one’s wife and one’s own mother can. We knew two Martins. She already knew which one. She wanted me to say his name and then follow up with irrefutable advice. The question hung in the air and I always blink first when she is like that.
“Your brother Martin.”
Now Martin is a good man. I like him for two reasons. He is my brother-in-law and an uncle to my girls. Martin is a sworn valuer for the Lands Department. When people ask him at a party what he does for a crust, he used to tell them. They offered to top up his glass with white wine vinegar or if he wanted something sweet, perhaps a glass of Château Hemlock? People buying a house think its value is too high. Sellers think the value is too low. So rather than upset one and please the other, Martin simply split the difference. Now nobody is happy with his valuations.
So when people ask now him what he does for a living, he tells them this and that.
My daughters, ten and 12 year olds, were now in the kitchen. Observing. They have their mother’s excitement sensing radar.
“Who was Dad talking to?” Emily asked, all sweetness and light and innocence.
“Private stuff,” I declared with the full authority of being sprung in a second.
“Mum?” Susan asked.
“Uncle Martin.”
“Run Emily run,” Susan shrieked in mock horror. ”It’s Doc Martin. Run.”
I heard two bed room doors slam and lock. The girls would do their homework.
“I’m going floundering tomorrow night with Martin.”
Here it comes: irrefutable advice to which I had a reply.
“Water, Martin and boats are a bad combination. Pause and retreat.”
“That’s unkind!” I protested.
“Alright then Martin, water, boats and you don’t mix. Pause and retreat,” she warned.
“I’ll take your advice on board,” I conceded.
“Not if it means on board on anything that floats, is to do with Martin or water.”
There are few things a man can do in the face of such opposition. Go to the pub, mow the lawn, wash the car or go to the shed and hammer a few nails into an innocent lump of wood. I didn't go to the pub.
Over dinner, my smartarse 12 year old just had to stir the possum. She gets that admittedly from me and subtlety from her mother.
“Dad. What are you building in the shed?”
“Goodwill,” I replied. That’s put an end to that one.
“Is Doc Martin at the hospital again?” Emily wanted to know.
“You know I don’t like it when you call him names,” I chided her.
“I don’t do it to his face. Ever. And I never call him Stubby,” she reminded me.
“That’s very kind of you Emily,” I said. “No man likes to be reminded of a short pointer finger.”
“Emily,” her mother said. “Eat you broccoli.”
There is little point arguing with a ten year old and especially when she is in the right. Martin, water and boats don’t mix. Martin and tools don’t mix. We bought a four burner barbeque from him. He had won it in a raffle and because he had a stainless steel 28 burner, two gas bottles, with a rotisserie, plate warmer, three thermostats, range hood and LED lights, he offered the self assembly Made in China prize to me for $50. He brought it round and sliced his hand open with a filleting knife he got out of my tackle box. I took him to the emergency ward. He insisted on finishing the unpacking. It was not easy. He had five stitches in his left palm. The pain was bearable he mentioned. The tetanus shot was overdue anyway.
The girls got a trampoline for Christmas. Martin came round with his two stepsons on Boxing Day. I wouldn’t let him help unpack the trampoline. Or erect it. That was my job. He understood that. He encouraged his youngest boy to have a go. The kid hopped up and down a bit. Dad encouraged him. Martin had his hands on the springs. Even a six year old is a heavy weight when he lands on an adult’s hand. The gash wasn’t too bad. He had broken his little finger before playing basket ball. It would knit by itself.
There is no denying reality. Martin is at the doctor’s a lot. I really can’t blame my girls for calling him Doc Martin. The name stuck elsewhere too. We keep working bees a secret from Martin otherwise no one comes. Watching Martin with hand tools is like watching children play with matches. Someone’s going to get hurt. Martin plugging in a circular saw is akin to a six year old handling a double barrel shotgun with a hair trigger.
“You girls want to come floundering?” I asked. It was a brilliant gambit, a stratagem worthy of a four star general.
The girls looked at their mother.
“Ask your Dad who else is coming.”
“Who Dad?”
“Your Uncle Martin, Esther and the boys.”
“Run Emily run,” Susan shrieked in mock horror. ”It’s Doc Martin. Run.”
I heard two bed room doors slam and lock. The girls went to finish their homework.
“Alright then! If nobody wants to come, I’ll just have to go on my own.”
My wife is a good sport. She made me sandwiches and filled the thermos. She put a pair of woolen sox in my tackle bag. I thought getting the first aid kit from the station wagon was a bit over the top. I had one in my SUV. There were at least three bandaids in it. The elastic bandage had never been used.
The girls waved good bye. They looked worried when I told them I was going to Marion Bay, flounder spearing with Martin. Spearing sounded dangerous they thought. But at least, I wasn’t in Martin’s 12 foot clinker built boat. Martin and I had made the 6 o’clock TV6 news once. His outboard wouldn’t start and we drifted for three hours in Storm Bay. We waited until dusk and for the rain to stop before letting off a flare. The water police gave us to a tow to the nearest jetty which was at Dunalley. Martin’s grandparents lived there in retirement. Quite convenient really. We sat in front of the open fire.
Martin’s grandfather had sage advice for us:” That which doesn’t kill you makes you strong.” I couldn’t thank him there and then for the comforting words because my teeth were chattering from mild hypothermia. It must be a generational thing. This idea of learning from suffering. I’m glad my parents hadn’t borrowed the same book on child rearing. Martin’s Pop gave us a lift to Bream Creek to pick up the boat trailer. I was only five hours overdue. It wasn’t Martin’s fault really, the weak mobile signal. And he had a spare flare he assured me. He had replaced the two he let off last New Year’s Eve?
I was off floundering with Martin and the crew. I’d be home no later than eleven. I think my family really wanted to believe that. Ten and twelve year old shouldn’t frown. It gives them premature wrinkles.
Martin and water. Pause and retreat. I wasn’t going near water. Well-technically perhaps but only knee deep at most. But no boats involved. Pause and retreat. I threw caution to the wind.
I arrived at the Bream Creek turn off at 3.30, half an hour late. I knew that this was no problem. Martin is never on time. Exiting things happen when he hits the road. He rocked up a 4.15. Martin in a Daihatsu 2 ton flatbed truck. Esther, his partner, followed close behind in her Ford Escort with her teenage sons. They were late. Sorry. A puncture and the spare being flat.
Never mind. It was still warm for an autumn day. Martin led the way. Along the dirt road, in between the two weekend shacks, onto the beach. Yeah! The beach was at least 50 metres wide and the tide was still going out. Fun. Fun. Fun. Burning along the beach. Martin sent spray high into the air when he veered off and came a bit too close to the water’s edge.
I overtook Esther and called out to the boys. “How much further?”
“Don’t know.”
It seemed to me that one stretch of the beach looked pretty much the same as any other as we zoomed along. Martin obviously had a spot picked out. Esther and I parked alongside. We could just make out the two shacks in the distance. No one around and only a slight breeze.
I was surprised at all the gear Martin had. None of it was his. He had borrowed the truck from his brother. The small aluminium punt, the flounder spears, the waterproof flounder lights and the two 12 Volt batteries were also his brother’s.
Martin and the boys made camp. Esther and I gathered driftwood. We pushed aside some kelp and dried neptune’s necklace see weed, made a fire pit and lit the fire.
We sat around and had a cup of tea. Martin’s plan to spear flounders had an elegant simplicity to it. The two boys would sit in the square bow of the punt, legs dangling and hold the flounder lights under water. The two men would push the punt parallel to the beach in knee high water. Martin on the starboard side (because he was right handed) and I would man the port side (because I was right handed). Wading along would disturb the flounders which would swim into the light and then, one of us would spear them.
The older boy, who was wise for a fourteen year old, objected. There were only nine things in motion that the flounder lights illuminated. A flounder, Martins two feet, my two feet and the boys’ feet. The kid calculated that for every one flounder, if it moved, there were eight other objects that moved or to be more precise, were subject to being speared. And they all looked like feet to him. He withdrew his feet and his brother’s feet from the equation. I asked him to recalculate the odds of someone spearing a flounder or foot. I could have done this myself but I wanted Martin to hear such a profound assessment coming out of the mouth of a babe. One in four. Martin’s timing is terrible. His aim is worse. The odds were definitely in the flounder’s favour. Someone was going to get speared. I thought my best chance of avoiding pain was with the boys in the punt.
We put Martin’s plan into effect. Without the spears at dusk. There were no flounders. We pushed the boat until our legs, below the knees turned blue. We rested and tried after dark. A breeze had come up meanwhile. It was impossible to see any movement under water at all because of all the ripples. When the punt started bobbing up and down, we made for the shore.
Esther and the boys had fried tofu with black beans and toasted marshmallows for afters. Martin had coleslaw without flounder. I shared my sandwiches out of gratitude for not getting speared and getting attacked by white pointers attracted by blood in the water.
The breeze had turned into wind. The boys were asleep in the tent. The floundering was over. I said good-night and drove off into the night.
I sped along the beach in the darkness. There was a bit of spray now and then. I could see our tracks and then a whole lot more tracks. And then none. Bugger! I had missed the turnoff. I swung round and got bogged in the soft sand up to the axles. The sand was soft and wet. The tide was rising. There was plenty of time for someone to pull me out.
I jogged along the beach in the moonlight. It was quite romantic actually. Martin and Esther were still sitting by the fire. They laughed at me missing the turnoff. Martin drove me back to my car and pulled it out without any problem. I thanked him. My wife was still up. I had come home early.
I told her about getting bogged. Fish? No fish but we had a good time. Injuries? None. Disasters? None. The night was still young. Exiting things could happen when Martin goes floundering.
My daughters were disappointed. They had expected blood to be spilled or at least a broken thumb. Not even a band aid scratch? Sorry girls. My wife was denied an opportunity to say I told you so. Martin, water and boat-nothing. It was too good to be true.
Our home phone rang at 5.30. It was Martin.
“Hang on,” my wife said. “I’ll put you on speaker.”
“Hallo Uncle Martin.”
“Hello girls.”
“Did you get any fish?”
“None.”
“What time did you get home?” I asked, not sure why.
“Just now,” Martin replied and then we listened.
When Esther an I made the fire pit, we should have realized from the dry seaweed and from the distance to the sand dunes, that we were below the high tide mark. When the wind kept on blowing, Martin and Esther went to sleep in heir tent. Martin couldn’t say with certainty when they woke or why. But there was water in the tent and around the tent. The once roaring camp fire was no more. Burning sticks now bobbed and down and some had floated quite some distance. They woke the boys. The smart kid took inventory. The punt was missing. He spotted it offshore. Martin urged him to swim and retrieve it. The kid watched and pointed out sparks and flames. The batteries! Sea water and batteries are a dangerous combination. The sparks stopped when first one battery and then the other exploded.
They were now standing in knee deep water in the moonlight. Esther’s Ford Escort, closer to the water than the truck, started moving. The boys hung on to it while Martin fumbled in the moonlight tying one end of the tow rope to the Escort and the other to the truck. The flounder lights would have been handy. But they were with the batteries on the sunken punt.
“We then collected all our gear and put it on the truck,” Martin said.
“How high was the tide?”
“Quite high actually,” Martin said.
Then he told us that the Escort started to float. It was pulling hard against the rope. That was alright at first. Martin, Esther and the boys were now sitting on the truck tray to keep dry. As the water rose further, the car started dragging the truck as the waves washed up and down the beach. They had little choice. Martin cut the tow rope and the Escort floated away. Esther couldn’t bear to watch. The truck started to bob up and down a little. Martin thought he might go for help and jumped off. The truck started moving so Martin hopped back on. Rescue would have to wait until the tide changed.
“You have now idea,” Martin wanted us to know,” How boring it is watching the tide go out.”
When it was safe to do so, Martin jumped off the truck and sought help from the nearest house. The occupants did not appreciate being woken at six o’clock on a Sunday morning. They were however good sports and rang for a tow truck.
”It was a bit embarrassing,” Martin admitted,” The truck wouldn’t start. The fire extinguisher came in handy when the battery and the wires started smoldering.” “And then? What happened then?” Emily wanted to know.
“Esther sat in the tow truck with the boys on the way to Dunalley. We used my Gran’s blow dryer to dry the truck’s electricals. Pop paid for a new battery which was an early birthday present.”
“Ah well,” my wife declared,” As long as no one got hurt.”
“Only a bit,” Esther admitted. “A few minor burns on Martin’s hands. He’s more worried about the insurance on the truck. Not sure if it covers other drivers and there is the matter of batteries and……”
I didn’t want to hear any more about Martin’s disaster and went to the shed. I’m safe there. Sooner or later, I’d have to go inside and hear ‘I told you. Didn’t I?’ Maybe we’ll invite Martin, his missus and the kids to McDonald’s? Yes, I’ll do that. Nothing will happen to them on the way there and back. Please.
Interesting things happen when Martin goes floundering.
A Stolen Childhood
A VW camper van, an old and much dented 1970’s pop-top, stopped outside my house, made a U-turn and parked under a ‘No Standing Anytime’ sign. Good luck mate! Our Anglesea parking inspectors are a zealous lot even on a Monday in mid winter. Queensland number plates make no difference.
The woman driver climbed out and waited at the kerb. A black BMW 321 zoomed up. A woman with clipboard and mobile phone greeted the waiting woman and unlocked the front door of the ‘house for rent’. They came out a good ten minutes later, the BMW driver left and the woman returned to her van. She pulled the yellow parking ticket from under the windscreen wiper and put it into her skirt pocket.
The chiming door bell interrupted my morning routine.
“Hi. I’m Kit. I’m rentan the place next door.”
“I’m Angela,” I said to the camper van driver. I invited her in and put on the kettle. She stank of stale cigarette smoke but thankfully, she didn’t light up. Kit talked with tiny pauses between words as if having to catch her breath. Her voice was deep and throaty.
“You have a lot of books.”
She pointed to my laptop.
“What’s this for?”
I told her about writing letters to my family, Facebook, letters to the editor and church news.
“You’re good with words then,” Kit concluded.
She sat down in an unhurried, deliberate way as if she had to avoid exertion. She drank her tea slowly and reclined after every tiny sip. Just watching her made me feel sluggish.
“All I have is in me van,” she replied to my offer to help her move in.
I was curious about this petite woman with arty acrylic nails and blond tipped hair. She wore an ankle length blue denim skirt, a cream blouse and a sleeveless, blue polar fleece vest. Clothes she had made herself, as I found out later. She also had a red beret, three strands of ceramic beads, a cloth shoulder bag and worn out uggboots.
Her face was deeply wrinkled and tanned like leather. Were the rings on every finger designed to draw attention away from ugly sunspots and scars on her hands?
“Lost me specs,” she said and asked me to write her new address on the back of an envelope.
We chatted over the back a few times but were never close neighbours. About a year after moving in, Kit came over one afternoon with a letter. She asked me to read it aloud:
Dear Kit,
I found out many years ago that I was adopted but did not look for my birth mother then. I started searching for you five years ago and made contact with your sister Marg. Please don’t be mad at her for giving me your address.
I have three children of my own who want to meet their grandmother. I hope you will agree and not be angry at your sister or me.
Janet Donaldson.
Kit sobbed softly, then dried the tears and blew her nose.
“I need a smoke,” she said and went outside.
She was composed when she came back in but looked drawn.
“Janet will ask why I gave her up 37 years ago,” she surmised. “I can’t face that shit again.”
She told me of two terminations before she was twenty.
“I took a chance with the third pregnancy. Nearly killed me,” she confided. “Will you write to Janet? Explain a few things please?”
“Sure,” I replied.
Kit told me snippets of her life, her biggest and most shameful secret and some small ones. It’s obviously not the whole story but what she wanted to share with her daughter.
I heard the van drive off very early the next morning. Kit left a stamped and addressed envelope in my letter box. I waited a week. A black BMW zoomed up. A woman with clipboard and mobile phone waited for the next applicant for the house to rent.
I added ‘Janet Donaldson c/o’ to the address on the envelope and posted it.
Kit was born Kitty Schuster in Mackay, Queensland in 1936 she thinks. She was the fifth and last born child, a much underweight premature baby.
“She looks like a skun rabbit,” her father declared.
“Baby rabbits are kittens,” her mum replied. “Kitten or Kitty?”
“Kit. Short for Kitty,” her father decided.
Barney Schuster was a slaughterman, Elsie did dress alterations. Barney lost his job in the big depression. By the time the economy recovered, only Marg, the first born child and Kitty were alive. Poverty, hunger and disease had taken their toll.
When Kitty said her throat was sore, Elsie panicked, afraid she might lose a fourth child. A month later, Kitty complained of pain in her knees and shoulders. Elsie feared the worst when the child developed a fever, then a rash and small weeping bumps under the skin. Kitty was admitted to the Mackay Hospital in 1941 with rheumatic fever. She was five years old and close to heart failure because the inflammation had damaged her heart and its valves. The slightest exertion might kill her.
“Lie still Kitty,” the nurses would have said over and over again and made sure she did by restraining the poor mite.
Kitty lay immobilised, then motionless because this was the only treatment for rheumatic fever in the days before antibiotics. She spent eight years in a hospital bed. In 1946, she was well enough to leave her bed and walk five steps away and back. She learned to count to 10, 20, 50, 100. The doctors promised that when she could walk 500 steps, she could leave.
In her eight years in an adult ward, Kitty never did the 1001 things kids do. She never saw another child. Before her discharge, a doctor warned:
“You have a heart murmur. You are not strong enough to have babies. If you have a baby, your heart will stop and you will die.”
Kitty understood death. She had seen old people with grey faces stop breathing and not wake up.
She was 13 and had nothing to wear! One nurse found her a hand me down dress, much too big for the scrawny teenager. Another nurse gave her a needle and cotton. Kitty figured out what to do.
Kitty’s father was killed in action in 1942, her mother had died in 1945 and because nothing was known about her sister, Kitty became a foster child.
A school inspector enrolled her in Grade 5 because she was about the right size. Kitty didn't know what to do in class or at recess. She attended school for just one day.
She lived with foster parents and three younger, also fostered girls. Kitty learned how to pass the parcel and play musical chairs and loved most of all to dress-up. She made her very first skirt and a blouse from second hand material. There was no stopping Kitty when she discovered her foster mother’s treadle sewing machine. Then and there, she decided on a world of needle and thread.
Kitty’s started work with a dressmaker but was sacked an hour into the job because she could not read measurements and patterns. That was Kitty’s biggest secret and shame: she was illiterate. Even today, she can’t read a newspaper or understand a parking ticket.
Even though Kitty was illiterate, she was clever. She made the connection between the numbers she could count and printed numbers on a measuring tape and on patterns. She also learnt to read the printed words on patterns.
Kitty worked as a dressmaker until she was 21. With money saved, she started her own alterations shop, employed people and was on the road to success. In 1986, she sold up in Mackay, moved to Brisbane and opened a large haberdashery shop: “Kit Schuster’s Emporium”. One day, Marg Walters, curious about the shop’s name, asked to speak to the owner. That’s how the sisters reunited after 32 years.
Kit turned 65 in the year the Australian Government introduced the Goods and Services Tax. Her response to the new tax and its onerous paperwork was short, pithy and final. She wanted all and sundry to know:
“Yous can all get fucked.”
And with that, she sold up, invested her money, went on the age pension, bought a camper van, toured the country and lived in Anglesea, Victoria, for a while.
Rabbiting with Jack
You meet all sorts of people at caravan parks. I was in my tent camping in Colac in Victoria right next to the lake. By the time I got up, the early risers had already caught their breakfast. Redfin? I was after trout. If you’re after trout, come to Gong Gong Reservoir near Creswick, I heard. There is always somebody who knows where to catch better and bigger fish. Last year, you should have been here or there. I got up early the following day. Caught some redfin and tossed them back.
“You after trout?” my soon to be fishing mate asked.
“Yes. Gong Gong is pretty good I hear.”
“Maybe. Lake Wendouree in Ballarat is just as good.”
“Really?”
“Sure. I’ll show you. Jack Goninan is my name.”
I shook Jack’s hand and introduced myself to this unassuming man. Little did I know. Jack gave me his address in Sebastopol, a Ballarat suburb. I had just shaken hands with a killer.
In June, on the Queen’s Birthday long weekend, I was the Goninans’ guest. Trout fishing in Lake Wendouree is what we had in mind.
“First things first. We need the right bait,” Jack declared.
The right bait was minnows. Fresh bait. On Saturday, we got up before breakfast to net these tiny fish. Net? We were going netting for minnows in Lake Wendouree. If June can be cold in Victoria, Ballarat can be much colder. It was a cold Saturday. Jack, being the more senior, stayed on dry land while I waded in knee-deep water dragging one end of the net while he held the other. One sweep netted us three of the tiny fish. Two more sweeps and we had bait enough. So had I. My legs, from the knee down, had turned blue in the icy water. We fished for two hours, then went home for a late breakfast and to thaw out. No fish for lunch or dinner.
“You’re not going out again today,” Julie Goninan stated.
“Why’s that?” Jack protested.
“Because it’s snowing.”
Julie was right. It snowed all day. We had lunch and then afternoon tea and dinner. Julie made up for the disappointing day with scrumptious food and Jack with an open fire and grog.
“Let’s go and feed the ferrets,” Jack said. “And then we’ll play Scrabble. Julie likes Scrabble.”
Jack liked ferrets. They were killers, he wanted me to know. He had two breeding pairs and five youngens. I respected his advice to handle the males by the neck. “They can be temperamental.” Ferret teeth looked sharp. Killer teeth, male and female alike. Jack gave each of the adult pets a teaspoon of minced meat.
“Just a little to get them in the mood and hungry for more.”
On Sunday morning, the weather was still too bad to go fishing, so Jack decided to go rabbiting. That was fine with me as I had never been rabbiting. Jack had with him a .22 and his pets for company. He knew a sheltered spot on his mate’s property.
Jack showed me how to peg and set the net over a rabbit hole. There were quite a few in this particular burrow. He had brought along his two boys and the neighbour’s son as well. We set ten nets and were responsible for two each. There were fresh rabbit droppings all around in the sandy soil, so we were sure to do well.
Then Jack let the four killer machines loose. With an ear to the ground, we listened for the telltale signs. The ferrets were on to them. Rabbits were on the run. The safe way out was to head for open ground. Next thing, I had a rabbit tangled in the net. Then another. What now?
“Jack! Jack! I got two!” I shouted.
“Wring their necks,” Jack replied.
Me? Wring necks? Kill rabbits?
“Show me,“ I called out.
Jack, the rabbit killer, showed me just how to do it. The left hand round the rabbit’s neck and the right hand holds the back legs. Pull and twist-one dead rabbit. Pull and twist-another rabbit with a broken neck. I didn't enjoy killing rabbits but that’s what we’d come to do. I reset the nets, caught and killed again.
We had twenty rabbits, more than enough. We gathered pegs and nets and waited for the ferrets. One ferret poked its head out of the hole, looked around and decided on more fun. I heard the rabbits scurrying underground. I heard Jack cursing in the distance, something about fuckan ferrets. He came over.
“They do that to me. Buggers won’t come out. They eat the young rabbits. Grab ‘em as soon as you see one.”
A good five minutes later, a well fed ferret, the same or another, came out of the hole and I grasped it by the neck and put it into the cage. It showed me teeth. I sat, shivered and waited amongst the bracken fern for another. I heard the thumping of rabbits feet. Quite close. A movement in the hole. I sat motionless. A rabbit poked its head out, looked around and I jumped. It struggled only for a moment.
“Where’s this one come from,” Jack asked when he counted 10 pair plus one rabbit.
“Me. I caught it.”
“How?”
“With my bare hands,” I announced.
“Amazing,” everybody said.
“Easier than catching a ferret,” I said.
Two of the boys put their hands out of sight.
Now that all ferrets had been accounted for, it was time for Jack to gut the still warm rabbits. Steam rose from the discarded guts and innards. I tried gutting one. Jack did all the others and with hind legs intertwined, hung the carcasses on the bull bar. We were pleased with the day’s take. Julie was pleased too. Baked bunny not today, the rabbits have to hang for a while. Maybe in a week? Please come again. Why not?
I thanked my hosts and drove back to Melbourne. The Western Highway holiday weekend traffic was murder. Being stuck in traffic is one thing. Dealing with vengeful rabbits is something else entirely. Jack hadn’t mentioned that rabbits come with fleas. There I was stuck in traffic trying not to scratch my itchy everywhere. In desperation I pulled over. I stood in my underpants on the side of the road and shook my clothes. I wasn’t embarrassed, only itchy.
I hung my brace of rabbits on a roadside fence. They might end up in someone’s freezer and eventually dog meat. I don’t really care. So, if you come across Jack Goninan, remember the fleas before you accept an invitation to go rabbiting with Jack.
About the author
I have one grandfather who was a builder. My other grandfather was a stonemason and my father was a traditional blacksmith. Both my grandmothers had cooked for a living, one in a hotel and the other for well-to-do people. A career in construction or perhaps engineering or catering would have been obvious choices.
Instead, I spent 20 years in business and in mid life retrained
myself. I chose to work with my hands as my father and grandparents
had. I become a renowned woodcraftsman and founded with my wife an
art and craft gallery in a Tasmanian tourist town. After 20 years
there, we followed our children to mainland Australia to retire on
Victoria’s Bellarine Peninsula. I took up writing seriously in
2003.
Working with their hands, creating and shaping materials
has occupied my forebear. From stone, to iron, to wood. Now I spend
my time putting pen to paper. The medium is getting softer.
Kurt Ulmer
