Thomas W. Devine's Blog, page 2
October 30, 2022
MISSING PEOPLE
A short story:
More than 2000 people disappear in Alaska each year. I, a sixty-six-year-old male resident of the State, was responsible for two of them over a six-month period. The first was a hooker I picked up in the street downtown and the second was a man in a bar to whom I offered a ride, but he never made it home.
My wife, Anne, said at the dinner table one night, “That venison tastes stronger than the animal you hunted for us last year.” She spoke out of the side of her mouth because of partial paralysis in her face.
I replied, “Last year’s was a doe – a female deer – this year it was a buck.”
“That would explain it,” my sister-in-law, Gloria commented. Gloria, a widow who is a year older than my wife, lives with us and helps look after her sister who, as a result of a stroke, can only move around by being pushed in a wheelchair.
While the supply lasted, I used to keep the wild kill in a locked freezer in our basement. After the two women in my household went to bed, I’d take out a cut, put it in a slow-cooker overnight and then, the following evening, reheat it for the meal.
I was a genuine hunter and had a small, isolated cabin in the woods. My two victims ended up there. I used a chainsaw to cut them up. I did it roughly so that the remains (which I disposed of in the Alaskan wilderness) should they ever be found would look as if the bones had been gnawed by animals. The police would then suspect that wild predators at the top of the food chain, such as bears, had probably been responsible for the killings.
I cleaned the chain of the saw each time by cutting down a tree and chopping it up as firewood for the cabin, and then by hosing it down. (I keep the chainsaw at the cabin and never take it home.)
Afterward, I would wrap the cuts of meat in opaque plastic sheeting. I’d take them back to town in the tray of my ute, to put in the freezer.
When the “delicious venison” ran out, my wife and sister both wanted more.
However, my luck ended with the third kill. Unbeknown to me at the time, there was a witness. The police caught up with me before I reached the cabin.
I’m now in prison awaiting sentencing for that crime, but not the previous two. I have not confessed to the earlier murders and the remains have never been discovered.
My one regret is that I can no longer help to look after Anne. It all falls on Gloria now. I worry about what will happen to Anne if Gloria dies first.
More than 2000 people disappear in Alaska each year. I, a sixty-six-year-old male resident of the State, was responsible for two of them over a six-month period. The first was a hooker I picked up in the street downtown and the second was a man in a bar to whom I offered a ride, but he never made it home.
My wife, Anne, said at the dinner table one night, “That venison tastes stronger than the animal you hunted for us last year.” She spoke out of the side of her mouth because of partial paralysis in her face.
I replied, “Last year’s was a doe – a female deer – this year it was a buck.”
“That would explain it,” my sister-in-law, Gloria commented. Gloria, a widow who is a year older than my wife, lives with us and helps look after her sister who, as a result of a stroke, can only move around by being pushed in a wheelchair.
While the supply lasted, I used to keep the wild kill in a locked freezer in our basement. After the two women in my household went to bed, I’d take out a cut, put it in a slow-cooker overnight and then, the following evening, reheat it for the meal.
I was a genuine hunter and had a small, isolated cabin in the woods. My two victims ended up there. I used a chainsaw to cut them up. I did it roughly so that the remains (which I disposed of in the Alaskan wilderness) should they ever be found would look as if the bones had been gnawed by animals. The police would then suspect that wild predators at the top of the food chain, such as bears, had probably been responsible for the killings.
I cleaned the chain of the saw each time by cutting down a tree and chopping it up as firewood for the cabin, and then by hosing it down. (I keep the chainsaw at the cabin and never take it home.)
Afterward, I would wrap the cuts of meat in opaque plastic sheeting. I’d take them back to town in the tray of my ute, to put in the freezer.
When the “delicious venison” ran out, my wife and sister both wanted more.
However, my luck ended with the third kill. Unbeknown to me at the time, there was a witness. The police caught up with me before I reached the cabin.
I’m now in prison awaiting sentencing for that crime, but not the previous two. I have not confessed to the earlier murders and the remains have never been discovered.
My one regret is that I can no longer help to look after Anne. It all falls on Gloria now. I worry about what will happen to Anne if Gloria dies first.
October 10, 2022
The Count
Twenty-six-year-old, Jacqueline O’Brien, known to her friends as Jackie’O, worked for a number of years as a journalist in a major Wellington newspaper. In that capacity, she landed the enviable and rare chance to personally interview a lawyer with a reputation for successfully defending notable murder suspects.
She was invited to his home, a 1920s mansion in Thorndon. To get to the front door from the street, she had to hurry through a rain shower falling from a gloomy sky. Inside the house, the furniture looked as equally antique as the building, though some pieces might have been skilled reproductions. Considering her own taste in interior design, she found the period effect to be melancholy.
The celebrated lawyer, a grey-haired man at least twice her age, had met her at the door in person and showed her into his study. It was as large as the whole of her central-city bed-sit apartment. Jackie felt overwhelmed.
A manservant brought in afternoon tea on a tray and left it on a small table between them. The notable lawyer took it on himself to pour two cups. In response to his glance and a raised eyebrow, she said, “Milk, no sugar, please.”
Despite the priority, in her mind, of beginning the interview, her host persuaded her to talk about herself. He was charming and looked interested in what she said, though she thought her back-story was all too mundane.
He interrupted her flow of words with questions here and there then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to go out to a press conference to do with the outcome of the latest case I defended. Should have let you get on with your interview, shouldn’t I?” He seemed only mildly apologetic. “Won’t be away for more than an hour. You can either come back or wait for me here.”
Jackie looked at the books on the tall shelves around her and thought it would be a great chance to find out what the notable man read. “I’ll stay,” she said, “if that’s alright.”
“Terrance will look after you if there’s anything you need.”
Jackie woke. She was feeling thirsty. She checked her watch by the meager light of a single table-top lamp then looked out the only window in the room. It was dark outside. She found that hard to accept. It had to be 2 o’clock in the afternoon not in the early a.m. She couldn’t have slept for hours!
Why hadn’t someone woken her? She felt anxious. The house was terribly quiet and still.
She didn’t know how to summon attention. The manservant had just materialized when he brought the tea service earlier.
She stood and made her way to the back of the house, turning on lights as she went and hoping desperately that the power did not go off and plunge her into the gloomy darkness.
No one was in the kitchen. She saw the tea service on the bench, unwashed. The frightening thought crossed her mind that she might have been drugged. She crossed to the bench, identified the cup she had used by a smear of pink lipstick, lifted it, and sniffed the dregs. She could detect nothing but the odor of Earl Grey tea.
She called out Terrance’s name a couple of times, fruitlessly, then decided to re-claim her possessions and leave the house. As she retraced her steps, she left the lights on. The study was still full of shadows.
The next thing, Jackie’O knew was that someone was shaking her by the shoulder. She started to come around.
“You were out for the count,” a recently familiar voice said.
‘Out for the count’ was an expression that her father, a keen follower of boxing, had often used when predicting the result of a knockout while viewing a bout on TV.
The notable lawyer was standing in front of her. She was lying on the leather sofa in his study. She sat up, confused, then glanced out the window. It was daylight. She wondered if, incredibly, it was now after sunrise and she’d slept the further hours.
She saw that her coat remained folded on the armchair and that her purse sat on top of it. Her disability walking frame was still within reach.
A moment later, she realized that she had not used her mobility aid to walk down the corridor to the kitchen, proving to herself that her strange experience had all been a dream she’d come out of unharmed.
The notable lawyer asked kindly, “Ready to interview me, then?”
She was invited to his home, a 1920s mansion in Thorndon. To get to the front door from the street, she had to hurry through a rain shower falling from a gloomy sky. Inside the house, the furniture looked as equally antique as the building, though some pieces might have been skilled reproductions. Considering her own taste in interior design, she found the period effect to be melancholy.
The celebrated lawyer, a grey-haired man at least twice her age, had met her at the door in person and showed her into his study. It was as large as the whole of her central-city bed-sit apartment. Jackie felt overwhelmed.
A manservant brought in afternoon tea on a tray and left it on a small table between them. The notable lawyer took it on himself to pour two cups. In response to his glance and a raised eyebrow, she said, “Milk, no sugar, please.”
Despite the priority, in her mind, of beginning the interview, her host persuaded her to talk about herself. He was charming and looked interested in what she said, though she thought her back-story was all too mundane.
He interrupted her flow of words with questions here and there then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to go out to a press conference to do with the outcome of the latest case I defended. Should have let you get on with your interview, shouldn’t I?” He seemed only mildly apologetic. “Won’t be away for more than an hour. You can either come back or wait for me here.”
Jackie looked at the books on the tall shelves around her and thought it would be a great chance to find out what the notable man read. “I’ll stay,” she said, “if that’s alright.”
“Terrance will look after you if there’s anything you need.”
Jackie woke. She was feeling thirsty. She checked her watch by the meager light of a single table-top lamp then looked out the only window in the room. It was dark outside. She found that hard to accept. It had to be 2 o’clock in the afternoon not in the early a.m. She couldn’t have slept for hours!
Why hadn’t someone woken her? She felt anxious. The house was terribly quiet and still.
She didn’t know how to summon attention. The manservant had just materialized when he brought the tea service earlier.
She stood and made her way to the back of the house, turning on lights as she went and hoping desperately that the power did not go off and plunge her into the gloomy darkness.
No one was in the kitchen. She saw the tea service on the bench, unwashed. The frightening thought crossed her mind that she might have been drugged. She crossed to the bench, identified the cup she had used by a smear of pink lipstick, lifted it, and sniffed the dregs. She could detect nothing but the odor of Earl Grey tea.
She called out Terrance’s name a couple of times, fruitlessly, then decided to re-claim her possessions and leave the house. As she retraced her steps, she left the lights on. The study was still full of shadows.
The next thing, Jackie’O knew was that someone was shaking her by the shoulder. She started to come around.
“You were out for the count,” a recently familiar voice said.
‘Out for the count’ was an expression that her father, a keen follower of boxing, had often used when predicting the result of a knockout while viewing a bout on TV.
The notable lawyer was standing in front of her. She was lying on the leather sofa in his study. She sat up, confused, then glanced out the window. It was daylight. She wondered if, incredibly, it was now after sunrise and she’d slept the further hours.
She saw that her coat remained folded on the armchair and that her purse sat on top of it. Her disability walking frame was still within reach.
A moment later, she realized that she had not used her mobility aid to walk down the corridor to the kitchen, proving to herself that her strange experience had all been a dream she’d come out of unharmed.
The notable lawyer asked kindly, “Ready to interview me, then?”
October 3, 2022
A GOOD MARRIAGE
The couple set up a small tent on the lakeshore. Just before twilight, they lit an open fire and sat beside it, roasting marshmallows on sticks and consuming the melting sweets with sips of wine. Darkness came, and they retired to the tent in separate sleeping bags.
David was a fifty-year-old civil engineer. His wife, Susan was a forty-eight-year-old self-employed florist. They were on holiday together, their first without dependent children.
David took Susan’s hand and wordlessly drew her arm into his sleeping bag, letting it lie at his side.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“What for?”
“For the fight I started. Do you forgive me?”
David still had a red mark across his forehead from when, in frustration, she had hit him with a small branch intended for the fire. Few words had been exchanged since the fight, and only when unavoidable.
“Of course, I forgive you,” he said, squeezing her hand. He’d always tried to follow the maxim of never going to sleep without resolving any dispute or hurt. “I was in the wrong too.”
“And I’m sorry I hit you with the stick," she said. "Does it hurt still?”
“It doesn’t throb anymore. Just burns a bit.”
For a moment there was silence. She did not look his way. “You used to hit me.”
“Only ever a slap with an open hand and never with full force.”
“Most women would say that made no difference.”
It did to David. “Anyhow, it only used to happen when you baited me deliberately. What you used to say – the buttons you knew how to push – hurt me so much because I love you. And I’ve apologized often for my response.”
“And I’ve forgiven you.”
But she never had, really, David thought. Otherwise, why did she keep bringing it up time after time? He had not hit her for years. But maybe hitting a woman was never forgettable, or forgivable, especially for the victim.
Her reminders always made him feel bad; guilty in a way for his still feeling like she had deserved it.
He had never been able to win a hurtful argument with words alone. On those few occasions when he could no longer control himself, he’d just had to stop her with a slap.
Then, things always ended in tears.
After all the years they’d been married, he still loved her. Their shared experience of being parents together had been a strong reason that kept them united.
Did they have a happy marriage?
David thought so, despite the ups and downs. Even having been hit by his wife with a stick, in the heat of the moment, did not change his mind.
He squeezed Susan’s hand again then leaned out of his sleeping bag and kissed her cheek.
David was a fifty-year-old civil engineer. His wife, Susan was a forty-eight-year-old self-employed florist. They were on holiday together, their first without dependent children.
David took Susan’s hand and wordlessly drew her arm into his sleeping bag, letting it lie at his side.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“What for?”
“For the fight I started. Do you forgive me?”
David still had a red mark across his forehead from when, in frustration, she had hit him with a small branch intended for the fire. Few words had been exchanged since the fight, and only when unavoidable.
“Of course, I forgive you,” he said, squeezing her hand. He’d always tried to follow the maxim of never going to sleep without resolving any dispute or hurt. “I was in the wrong too.”
“And I’m sorry I hit you with the stick," she said. "Does it hurt still?”
“It doesn’t throb anymore. Just burns a bit.”
For a moment there was silence. She did not look his way. “You used to hit me.”
“Only ever a slap with an open hand and never with full force.”
“Most women would say that made no difference.”
It did to David. “Anyhow, it only used to happen when you baited me deliberately. What you used to say – the buttons you knew how to push – hurt me so much because I love you. And I’ve apologized often for my response.”
“And I’ve forgiven you.”
But she never had, really, David thought. Otherwise, why did she keep bringing it up time after time? He had not hit her for years. But maybe hitting a woman was never forgettable, or forgivable, especially for the victim.
Her reminders always made him feel bad; guilty in a way for his still feeling like she had deserved it.
He had never been able to win a hurtful argument with words alone. On those few occasions when he could no longer control himself, he’d just had to stop her with a slap.
Then, things always ended in tears.
After all the years they’d been married, he still loved her. Their shared experience of being parents together had been a strong reason that kept them united.
Did they have a happy marriage?
David thought so, despite the ups and downs. Even having been hit by his wife with a stick, in the heat of the moment, did not change his mind.
He squeezed Susan’s hand again then leaned out of his sleeping bag and kissed her cheek.
September 18, 2022
Something Borrowed, Something New
Sara Crompton was the oldest daughter of an Anglican Church minister. She was brought up strictly to believe that sex was meant to be confined within marriage. She met and fell in love with Peter Spalding, at first sight, at a church youth function. They were both nineteen years old.
They got married quickly before their desire for each other overcame their self-restraint. Or so it seemed, but Sara had an unplanned adventure on the night before the wedding. It happened on a bride-to-be night out with her girlfriends. She’d let herself become uncharacteristically intoxicated while with them, and met an irresistibly attractive stranger at a bar.
Sara’s mother had devoted herself to the hurried wedding arrangements and Sara did not become a bridezilla. She even followed the tradition of something borrowed (her mother’s wedding veil) and something new (her own wedding dress). She was the traditional beautiful bride in white at the ceremony.
She married Peter at the Likuliku Resort on Malolo Island in the Mamanuko Archipelago, a short boat ride from the Fijian capital. After the wedding, they stayed on to honeymoon.
_________
A headline in the Fiji Times two days later:
Newly-wed Drowns at Malolo Island
__________
Because of suspicious injuries, found on autopsy, Peter was charged with manslaughter.
Giving tearful testimony at his trial, he said that he and his deceased wife were both poor swimmers and had unintentionally gone out of their depth in the lagoon at the resort. It was a tragedy he wished he had been able to avoid. He loved Sara very much but she had wanted to swim in the sea against his advice.
Her injuries, he said shame-facedly, had been caused when he had to push her off when she clung to him and dragged him under the surface. He wished he had died with her but his fear of drowning, and the survival instinct, had driven him temporarily out of his mind.
The Fijian jury acquitted Peter.
At the young age of twenty, back in Auckland, he settled into life as a widower, never forgetting what Sara had confessed on their wedding night.
They got married quickly before their desire for each other overcame their self-restraint. Or so it seemed, but Sara had an unplanned adventure on the night before the wedding. It happened on a bride-to-be night out with her girlfriends. She’d let herself become uncharacteristically intoxicated while with them, and met an irresistibly attractive stranger at a bar.
Sara’s mother had devoted herself to the hurried wedding arrangements and Sara did not become a bridezilla. She even followed the tradition of something borrowed (her mother’s wedding veil) and something new (her own wedding dress). She was the traditional beautiful bride in white at the ceremony.
She married Peter at the Likuliku Resort on Malolo Island in the Mamanuko Archipelago, a short boat ride from the Fijian capital. After the wedding, they stayed on to honeymoon.
_________
A headline in the Fiji Times two days later:
Newly-wed Drowns at Malolo Island
__________
Because of suspicious injuries, found on autopsy, Peter was charged with manslaughter.
Giving tearful testimony at his trial, he said that he and his deceased wife were both poor swimmers and had unintentionally gone out of their depth in the lagoon at the resort. It was a tragedy he wished he had been able to avoid. He loved Sara very much but she had wanted to swim in the sea against his advice.
Her injuries, he said shame-facedly, had been caused when he had to push her off when she clung to him and dragged him under the surface. He wished he had died with her but his fear of drowning, and the survival instinct, had driven him temporarily out of his mind.
The Fijian jury acquitted Peter.
At the young age of twenty, back in Auckland, he settled into life as a widower, never forgetting what Sara had confessed on their wedding night.
January 28, 2022
Question Raised
We were in a bar discussing personality types:
“What do you call the female version of a wolf?” Bob sometimes struggled to recall a word. Glassy-eyed, he looked like he was prying back through the labyrinth of his brain.
“A transvestite,” I joked.
“No. There’s a word for it.”
I let him of the hook, “ A cougar.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” He sounded as triumphant as if he had remembered the word for himself.
“What do you call the female version of a wolf?” Bob sometimes struggled to recall a word. Glassy-eyed, he looked like he was prying back through the labyrinth of his brain.
“A transvestite,” I joked.
“No. There’s a word for it.”
I let him of the hook, “ A cougar.”
“Yeah, that’s it.” He sounded as triumphant as if he had remembered the word for himself.
August 24, 2021
The Dinner Party
Another contribution of mine read to the Tawa Writer's group:
The "dinner party", as a discussion topic, can be broken down into its various primary elements – the host, the guests, the venue, and the menu.
The host may be one person, a couple, or a group of people with a common purpose. The host exercises control over the other elements. The host may play a background part or take a lead role, according to their inclination and choice.
The guests are likely to include friends of the host, family members, those whom the host is out to impress, or those whom the host considers would be good mixers, entertaining, or likely to impress the other guests.
Not on the guest list will be people that the host dislikes or whom the host thinks will not fit in with preferred guests. Poor choice can ruin the enjoyment of a dinner party. You don’t, for example, want a “Moaning Tony” like the character in the Powershop dinner party ad on TV.
The makeup of the guest list might also be influenced by whether the dinner party is a celebration (e.g., of a birthday) or an event in its own right.
The menu (food and drinks) may be dictated by the tastes of the host, or their expectations of that of their guests, or by the amount of money available for the dinner. That in turn may be decided by how much the host is out to impress.
These days, vegan and vegetarian options would be available.
In setting the menu, some thought will have to go to deciding how much alcohol, if any, is made available.
A trend will hopefully not be set by a recent news item in which it was reported that the menu for a dinner party (a wedding) was divided into groups of dishes with the guest having to choose the group that matched the value of the gift they’d bought for the lucky couple. The higher the value the better the meal.
The choice of venue will be decided in part by the size of the dinner party. A small family dinner, for example, will generally be served in the home of the host. Larger dinner parties might be thrown in a restaurant or a hall, or the venue might be dictated by the entertainment provided.
Placing guests around the dinner table at the venue requires careful thought to ensure compatibility or stimulation. However, you’ll want to avoid causing friction between guests of the sort portrayed in the “Married at First Sight” dinner parties, as shown on TV.
So, in summary, in planning the different elements of your dinner party, try and be more successful than Philip S Davies, organiser of a dinner party, who recorded in his Internet blog:
“The evening had not been a complete disaster; it could have been worse. But then again, it could also have gone a lot better.”
The "dinner party", as a discussion topic, can be broken down into its various primary elements – the host, the guests, the venue, and the menu.
The host may be one person, a couple, or a group of people with a common purpose. The host exercises control over the other elements. The host may play a background part or take a lead role, according to their inclination and choice.
The guests are likely to include friends of the host, family members, those whom the host is out to impress, or those whom the host considers would be good mixers, entertaining, or likely to impress the other guests.
Not on the guest list will be people that the host dislikes or whom the host thinks will not fit in with preferred guests. Poor choice can ruin the enjoyment of a dinner party. You don’t, for example, want a “Moaning Tony” like the character in the Powershop dinner party ad on TV.
The makeup of the guest list might also be influenced by whether the dinner party is a celebration (e.g., of a birthday) or an event in its own right.
The menu (food and drinks) may be dictated by the tastes of the host, or their expectations of that of their guests, or by the amount of money available for the dinner. That in turn may be decided by how much the host is out to impress.
These days, vegan and vegetarian options would be available.
In setting the menu, some thought will have to go to deciding how much alcohol, if any, is made available.
A trend will hopefully not be set by a recent news item in which it was reported that the menu for a dinner party (a wedding) was divided into groups of dishes with the guest having to choose the group that matched the value of the gift they’d bought for the lucky couple. The higher the value the better the meal.
The choice of venue will be decided in part by the size of the dinner party. A small family dinner, for example, will generally be served in the home of the host. Larger dinner parties might be thrown in a restaurant or a hall, or the venue might be dictated by the entertainment provided.
Placing guests around the dinner table at the venue requires careful thought to ensure compatibility or stimulation. However, you’ll want to avoid causing friction between guests of the sort portrayed in the “Married at First Sight” dinner parties, as shown on TV.
So, in summary, in planning the different elements of your dinner party, try and be more successful than Philip S Davies, organiser of a dinner party, who recorded in his Internet blog:
“The evening had not been a complete disaster; it could have been worse. But then again, it could also have gone a lot better.”
August 1, 2021
Visit With a Notable Person
Another contribution to my Tawa writers' group:
The Count
Twenty-six-year-old, Jacqueline O’Brien, known to her friends as Jackie’O, worked for a number of years as a journalist in a major Wellington newspaper. In that capacity, she landed the enviable and rare chance to personally interview a lawyer with a reputation for successfully defending murder suspects.
She was invited to his home, a 1920s mansion in Thorndon. To get to the front door from the street, she had to hurry through a rain shower falling from a gloomy sky. Inside the house, the furniture looked equally as antique as the building, though some pieces might have been skilled reproductions. Considering her own taste in interior design, she found the period effect to be melancholy.
The celebrated lawyer, a grey-haired man at least twice her age, had met her at the door in person and showed her into his study. It was as large as the whole of her central-city bed-sit apartment. Jackie felt overwhelmed.
A manservant brought in afternoon tea on a tray and left it on a small table between them. The notable lawyer took it on himself to pour two cups. In response to a look and a raised eyebrow, she said, “Milk, no sugar, please.”
Despite the priority, in her mind, of beginning the interview, her host persuaded her to talk about herself. He was charming and looked interested in what she said, though she thought she was embarking on an all too mundane back-story.
He interrupted her flow of words with questions here and there then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to go out to a press conference about the outcome of the latest case I defended. Should have let you get on with your interview, shouldn’t I?” He seemed only mildly apologetic. “Won’t be away for more than an hour. You can either come back or wait for me here.”
Jackie looked at the books on the tall shelves around her and thought it would be a great chance to find out what the notable man read. “I’ll stay,” she said, “if that’s alright.”
“Terrance will look after you if there’s anything you need.”
Jackie woke. She was feeling thirsty. She checked her watch by the meagre light of a single table-top lamp then looked out the only window in the room. It was dark outside. She found that hard to accept. It had to be 2 o’clock in the afternoon not in the early a.m. She couldn’t have slept for hours!
Why hadn’t someone woken her? She felt anxious. The house was terribly quiet and still.
She didn’t know how to summon attention. The manservant had just materialized when he brought the tea service earlier.
She stood and made her way to the back of the house, turning on lights as she went and hoping desperately that the power did not go off and plunge her into gloomy darkness.
No one was in the kitchen. She saw the tea service on the bench, unwashed. The frightening thought crossed her mind that she might have been drugged. She crossed to the bench, identified the cup she had used by a smear of pink lipstick, lifted it, and sniffed the dregs. She could detect nothing but the odour of Earl Grey tea.
She called out Terrance’s name a couple of times, fruitlessly, then decided to re-claim her possessions and leave the house. As she re-traced her steps, she left the lights on.
The study was still full of shadows.
The next thing, Jackie’O knew was that someone was shaking her by the shoulder. She started to come round.
“You were out for the count,” a recently familiar voice said.
‘Out for the count’ was an expression that her father, a keen follower of boxing, had often used when predicting the result of a knockout while viewing a bout on TV.
The notable lawyer was standing in front of her. She was lying on the leather sofa in his study. She sat up, confused, then glanced out the window. It was daylight. She wondered if, incredibly, it was now after sunrise and she’d slept the further hours.
She saw that her coat remained folded on the armchair and that her purse sat on top of it. Her disability walking-frame was still within reach.
A moment later, she realised that she had not used her mobility-aid to walk down the corridor to the kitchen, proving to herself that her experience had all been a dream she’d come out of unharmed.
The notable lawyer asked kindly, “Ready to interview me?”
The Count
Twenty-six-year-old, Jacqueline O’Brien, known to her friends as Jackie’O, worked for a number of years as a journalist in a major Wellington newspaper. In that capacity, she landed the enviable and rare chance to personally interview a lawyer with a reputation for successfully defending murder suspects.
She was invited to his home, a 1920s mansion in Thorndon. To get to the front door from the street, she had to hurry through a rain shower falling from a gloomy sky. Inside the house, the furniture looked equally as antique as the building, though some pieces might have been skilled reproductions. Considering her own taste in interior design, she found the period effect to be melancholy.
The celebrated lawyer, a grey-haired man at least twice her age, had met her at the door in person and showed her into his study. It was as large as the whole of her central-city bed-sit apartment. Jackie felt overwhelmed.
A manservant brought in afternoon tea on a tray and left it on a small table between them. The notable lawyer took it on himself to pour two cups. In response to a look and a raised eyebrow, she said, “Milk, no sugar, please.”
Despite the priority, in her mind, of beginning the interview, her host persuaded her to talk about herself. He was charming and looked interested in what she said, though she thought she was embarking on an all too mundane back-story.
He interrupted her flow of words with questions here and there then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have to go out to a press conference about the outcome of the latest case I defended. Should have let you get on with your interview, shouldn’t I?” He seemed only mildly apologetic. “Won’t be away for more than an hour. You can either come back or wait for me here.”
Jackie looked at the books on the tall shelves around her and thought it would be a great chance to find out what the notable man read. “I’ll stay,” she said, “if that’s alright.”
“Terrance will look after you if there’s anything you need.”
Jackie woke. She was feeling thirsty. She checked her watch by the meagre light of a single table-top lamp then looked out the only window in the room. It was dark outside. She found that hard to accept. It had to be 2 o’clock in the afternoon not in the early a.m. She couldn’t have slept for hours!
Why hadn’t someone woken her? She felt anxious. The house was terribly quiet and still.
She didn’t know how to summon attention. The manservant had just materialized when he brought the tea service earlier.
She stood and made her way to the back of the house, turning on lights as she went and hoping desperately that the power did not go off and plunge her into gloomy darkness.
No one was in the kitchen. She saw the tea service on the bench, unwashed. The frightening thought crossed her mind that she might have been drugged. She crossed to the bench, identified the cup she had used by a smear of pink lipstick, lifted it, and sniffed the dregs. She could detect nothing but the odour of Earl Grey tea.
She called out Terrance’s name a couple of times, fruitlessly, then decided to re-claim her possessions and leave the house. As she re-traced her steps, she left the lights on.
The study was still full of shadows.
The next thing, Jackie’O knew was that someone was shaking her by the shoulder. She started to come round.
“You were out for the count,” a recently familiar voice said.
‘Out for the count’ was an expression that her father, a keen follower of boxing, had often used when predicting the result of a knockout while viewing a bout on TV.
The notable lawyer was standing in front of her. She was lying on the leather sofa in his study. She sat up, confused, then glanced out the window. It was daylight. She wondered if, incredibly, it was now after sunrise and she’d slept the further hours.
She saw that her coat remained folded on the armchair and that her purse sat on top of it. Her disability walking-frame was still within reach.
A moment later, she realised that she had not used her mobility-aid to walk down the corridor to the kitchen, proving to herself that her experience had all been a dream she’d come out of unharmed.
The notable lawyer asked kindly, “Ready to interview me?”
July 19, 2021
Eulogy to My Wife
My wife of 57 years died in February. This is the eulogy I prepared for the unveiling of her headstone:
Thank you, everyone, for coming to this unveiling of Gabrielle’s headstone.
I want to give a short eulogy to make up for not speaking at her funeral. Her death hit me so hard that I couldn’t do it then.
I never thought she would die first. Another husband put it this way when his wife died:
"To my wife in heaven,
I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with you. And then I realised you spent the rest of your life with me. I smile because I know you loved me till the day you went away and will keep loving me till the day we're together again."
We’ve all mourned Gabrielle’s passing. Over the months since, I’ve learned about grief like you probably have. Recently, I saw a quote that I’m sure you can relate to, as I do:
“Grief waits. It lurks around corners ready to hit you over the head; it hides behind doors with its leg stuck out to trip you over; in the middle of the night, it slips into bed beside you and lies there patiently waiting for you to wake up.”
During her lifetime, Gabrielle earned the inscription on her headstone of devoted wife, mother, and nana. In carrying out these roles she always did the best job she could. She made it a career that involved many sacrifices.
I’ve tried to think of positive aspects to her death. These were consoling to me:
• She didn’t have to go through the grief of losing a lifetime partner.
• She no longer had to deal each day with the daunting trials of dementia.
• It freed her from the frustration of losing her independence, like no longer being able to get out of bed herself or being able to walk.
• It took her out of a rest home, a place she never wanted to be.
• It brought the other illnesses of her last days to an end.
• And, finally, she went home to a better place, in God’s hands.
Gabrielle, you left a hole in our hearts the size of Lake Taupo, but we’ll go on loving you. That promise is on your headstone.
Thank you for sharing the 77 years of your life with all of us.
Together we recite:
"We consecrate this memorial as a sign of love and respect. May Gabrielle's soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life. Amen
Compassionate God, eternal Spirit of the universe, grant perfect rest in Your sheltering presence to Gabrielle, who has entered eternity. O God of mercy, let her find refuge in Your eternal presence beneath the shadow of Your sheltering wings, and let her soul be bound up in the bond of everlasting life. God is her inheritance. May she rest in peace. Amen.
May she always live in our hearts.
May we think of her tenderly and revere her memory
May her memory lead us to love.
May her memory be a blessing for her family. Amen."
Thank you, everyone, for coming to this unveiling of Gabrielle’s headstone.
I want to give a short eulogy to make up for not speaking at her funeral. Her death hit me so hard that I couldn’t do it then.
I never thought she would die first. Another husband put it this way when his wife died:
"To my wife in heaven,
I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with you. And then I realised you spent the rest of your life with me. I smile because I know you loved me till the day you went away and will keep loving me till the day we're together again."
We’ve all mourned Gabrielle’s passing. Over the months since, I’ve learned about grief like you probably have. Recently, I saw a quote that I’m sure you can relate to, as I do:
“Grief waits. It lurks around corners ready to hit you over the head; it hides behind doors with its leg stuck out to trip you over; in the middle of the night, it slips into bed beside you and lies there patiently waiting for you to wake up.”
During her lifetime, Gabrielle earned the inscription on her headstone of devoted wife, mother, and nana. In carrying out these roles she always did the best job she could. She made it a career that involved many sacrifices.
I’ve tried to think of positive aspects to her death. These were consoling to me:
• She didn’t have to go through the grief of losing a lifetime partner.
• She no longer had to deal each day with the daunting trials of dementia.
• It freed her from the frustration of losing her independence, like no longer being able to get out of bed herself or being able to walk.
• It took her out of a rest home, a place she never wanted to be.
• It brought the other illnesses of her last days to an end.
• And, finally, she went home to a better place, in God’s hands.
Gabrielle, you left a hole in our hearts the size of Lake Taupo, but we’ll go on loving you. That promise is on your headstone.
Thank you for sharing the 77 years of your life with all of us.
Together we recite:
"We consecrate this memorial as a sign of love and respect. May Gabrielle's soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life. Amen
Compassionate God, eternal Spirit of the universe, grant perfect rest in Your sheltering presence to Gabrielle, who has entered eternity. O God of mercy, let her find refuge in Your eternal presence beneath the shadow of Your sheltering wings, and let her soul be bound up in the bond of everlasting life. God is her inheritance. May she rest in peace. Amen.
May she always live in our hearts.
May we think of her tenderly and revere her memory
May her memory lead us to love.
May her memory be a blessing for her family. Amen."
July 4, 2021
Radio Interview
Below is my next contribution to the Tawa writing group:
On Radio
I went shopping in Porirua for a replacement radio. My old one had died of natural causes. There were many devices available but only one that looked like a radio to me, so it was the one I bought. It included a CD player and a lot of puzzling buttons that could perform various functions. The device allowed half a dozen radio stations to be pre- selected.
I chose to set only one – National Radio – my default for listening pleasure. I enjoy its interviews, book readings and news.
I used to listen only over breakfast but, after I retired from writing novels two years ago, this listening practice extended later into the mornings.
Recently, following the death of my wife, I leave the radio playing most of the day because it makes the house seem less empty. As I type this, for example, I can hear National Radio playing in the adjoining room of the house.
Not that I dislike music. I always tune by car radio to a music station. I guess music is less distracting, when driving, than the dialogue of much of National Radio programming.
I was interviewed on National Radio on one occasion in relation to my novel “Tortolona”. That followed an article about it in a New Zealand newspaper.
I was given adequate notice of the broadcast appointment but, since the interview would be live, I experienced unpleasant nervousness about it in anticipation.
I’d heard other writer interviews on radio, so I had some idea of the questions that might be asked. In preparation, I jotted down notes for possible answers. That helped but did not put me totally at ease.
On the day of the radio interview, in the morning, I had first to carry out three hours of duty as a volunteer at the Citizen’s Advice Bureau.
Afterwards, I got into the lift (elevator) to head home. The damn thing froze between floors. Shock horror! I thought I would be stuck in it for hours and miss my interview and the rare opportunity to promote my book.
Fortunately, despite this mishap, I got home in good time to receive the land-line phone call from the radio station interviewer. (I did not carry a cellphone back then.)
I wasn’t calm and collected during the interview but, listening to the recording later, I felt I had done reasonably well. I was even ready to face other interviews with better confidence, if the opportunity arose.
On Radio
I went shopping in Porirua for a replacement radio. My old one had died of natural causes. There were many devices available but only one that looked like a radio to me, so it was the one I bought. It included a CD player and a lot of puzzling buttons that could perform various functions. The device allowed half a dozen radio stations to be pre- selected.
I chose to set only one – National Radio – my default for listening pleasure. I enjoy its interviews, book readings and news.
I used to listen only over breakfast but, after I retired from writing novels two years ago, this listening practice extended later into the mornings.
Recently, following the death of my wife, I leave the radio playing most of the day because it makes the house seem less empty. As I type this, for example, I can hear National Radio playing in the adjoining room of the house.
Not that I dislike music. I always tune by car radio to a music station. I guess music is less distracting, when driving, than the dialogue of much of National Radio programming.
I was interviewed on National Radio on one occasion in relation to my novel “Tortolona”. That followed an article about it in a New Zealand newspaper.
I was given adequate notice of the broadcast appointment but, since the interview would be live, I experienced unpleasant nervousness about it in anticipation.
I’d heard other writer interviews on radio, so I had some idea of the questions that might be asked. In preparation, I jotted down notes for possible answers. That helped but did not put me totally at ease.
On the day of the radio interview, in the morning, I had first to carry out three hours of duty as a volunteer at the Citizen’s Advice Bureau.
Afterwards, I got into the lift (elevator) to head home. The damn thing froze between floors. Shock horror! I thought I would be stuck in it for hours and miss my interview and the rare opportunity to promote my book.
Fortunately, despite this mishap, I got home in good time to receive the land-line phone call from the radio station interviewer. (I did not carry a cellphone back then.)
I wasn’t calm and collected during the interview but, listening to the recording later, I felt I had done reasonably well. I was even ready to face other interviews with better confidence, if the opportunity arose.
June 15, 2021
Writing Again
I have joined a writing group in Tawa where the members write something each fortnight on a given topic then meet to read their pieces to each other.
The variety is interesting & writing talented.
We get fiction, opinion & autobiographical pieces, & plays.
Now I've given up writing novels it is valuable for my mind to be forced to write short pieces.
I'll share these with you in future blogs. Here's the first:
Title: Crisis in Tawa
Danger approaches. Pedestrians scatter. Teens on scooters run amok on Tawa’s conservative pavements.
It makes Kapi Mana News. It reaches national TV.
Tawa shopkeepers cringe in their small, Main Road emporiums.
No mention of a Tawa constabulary base; nor of the Tawa Community Patrol either. From somewhere, a law enforcement spokesperson is dredged up to police-speak about the new, two-wheeled threat to the safety and peace of mind of Tawa citizenry.
Kids in the range of 12-14 they say. Young thugs with evil intentions; mobile for a fast getaway.
They’ll just grab a moment in the spotlight, never achieve the notoriety of the legendary Lynn of Tawa.
The marauding teens have scootered away, perhaps never to return. Now, apart from its over-trafficked Main Road thoroughfare, the village has returned to peace and quiet. The Tawa crisis is over.
And that’s as much as I can make of the topic.
The variety is interesting & writing talented.
We get fiction, opinion & autobiographical pieces, & plays.
Now I've given up writing novels it is valuable for my mind to be forced to write short pieces.
I'll share these with you in future blogs. Here's the first:
Title: Crisis in Tawa
Danger approaches. Pedestrians scatter. Teens on scooters run amok on Tawa’s conservative pavements.
It makes Kapi Mana News. It reaches national TV.
Tawa shopkeepers cringe in their small, Main Road emporiums.
No mention of a Tawa constabulary base; nor of the Tawa Community Patrol either. From somewhere, a law enforcement spokesperson is dredged up to police-speak about the new, two-wheeled threat to the safety and peace of mind of Tawa citizenry.
Kids in the range of 12-14 they say. Young thugs with evil intentions; mobile for a fast getaway.
They’ll just grab a moment in the spotlight, never achieve the notoriety of the legendary Lynn of Tawa.
The marauding teens have scootered away, perhaps never to return. Now, apart from its over-trafficked Main Road thoroughfare, the village has returned to peace and quiet. The Tawa crisis is over.
And that’s as much as I can make of the topic.
