Category Archives: short story

Can’t Wait to Take You to the Flicks Again

This story was commissioned by Darebin Council for a project called ‘Writing this Place’, and originally published on the Darebin Arts website.

 

IMG_0298I have a photograph of my grandmother, Phyllis, taken in the Westgarth Cinema’s foyer. She’s about eighteen, standing by the marble dress-circle staircase, next to a man in his early twenties.

My mum and I found the photo in a shoebox while we were cleaning out Phyllis’s room at the aged-care facility.

‘Wow, Papa was cute,’ I said.

‘It’s not Papa,’ Mum said, moving on to clearing the next cupboard. After a minute or two she told me she thought the man’s name was Wesley.

Phyllis had talked a lot about somebody called Wes when she was really sick.

The photo is black and white, but hand-coloured so their cheeks are ethereally pink; Phyllis’s lips are too red and Wes’s eyes too blue. She’s smiling up at him from under her peek-a-boo hair-do. The rhinestone-rose brooch I remember from Christmases and funerals is pinned to her simple but shiny halter-neck dress, tiny hourglass figure — Veronica Lake. He’s holding his Humphrey Bogart hat by his side. Double-breasted suit, broad shoulders — Superman.

It was taken before the Greek-language films filled the house in the sixties and seventies. And long before the Valhalla moved in with its arthouse movies of the eighties and nineties — the High Street shopping strip was just derelict buildings and a fish and chip shop back then. No cafes, bars or organic foodstores bearing rooftop bicycle sculptures.

With the photo in Phyllis’s shoebox are letters from long-ago friends; cigarette cards of dogs, birds and butterflies; a Westgarth Theatre ticket to The Star Maker starring Bing Crosby and Linda Ware; and a picture postcard of the pyramids from Wesley Kennedy. Wes’s cursive handwriting is hard to read — tiny and squashed, as though he’d tried to jam too many words onto a surface that was never going to be big enough. And it’s smudged. By tears? the romantic in me wonders. More likely, time and wear has blurred the words. I can make out Dear Phil, still safe, practised action stations, pictures in the Officers Lounge, beautiful moonlit night, and the last line — just above the kisses — Can’t wait to take you to the flicks again when I get home.

Mum told me to stop looking at things and get a move on with the cleaning. I asked her if she wanted the shoebox. She thumbed through its contents and said she had enough stuff already, so I kept it.

 

Memory is like a camera — recording, illuminating, flashbulb moments. The unlit, blank and forgotten spaces we fill with stories.

It was the start of the war, before Pearl Harbour, and Australians were keen for mass entertainment, as well as war-news footage. Propaganda cartoons and messages from the prime minister would have screened before the main feature. And ads reassuring all would be well if we consumed Aeroplane Jelly and Bushells tea.

The Saturday night session of The Star Maker had been billed as A Grand Picture Evening. A glamorous occasion. That’s why a professional photographer had been there.

Phyllis’s smile was only for the camera; it would have slipped away as the flash faded, leaving her with the appearance of already having lost something. I can guess her thoughts: Please don’t go. And if Wes were to have read them, he’d have shaken them off with something like: ‘Let’s forget about everything for tonight and just enjoy the picture, live for the moment.’ From his crooked grin — a bit too clever or too cocky — I can tell he would have been all about fun. Perhaps a little heavy on bravado. Reckless?

The smell of popcorn, and Phyllis’s gardenia perfume, if she’d been able to afford it then. The heat from Wes’s hand on the small of her back. The youthful ache of expectation, for something to happen when the lights went down in the theatre. Maybe not a kiss — that was for later, under the streetlight on the way home — but she would have slipped off her gloves to hold his hand.

Today the cinema is pink in the autumn sun — a fairytale castle. In different light it might look imposing with its arched windows and patches of peeling paint. A Renaissance Palazzo tower. Below the parapet, a vertical sign of glass panels glints Westgarth Pictures.

At the box office a young woman in black scans the barcode on my phone and prints two tickets to Beauty and the Beast, while my daughter, Quinn, ponders the choc-top selection.

We cross the red-white-and-brown terrazzo floor and climb the staircase to cinema four. Back in Phyllis and Wes’s day there would have been only one cinema — the one with Art Deco light panels like giant Fruit Tingles on the ceiling. A couple of older women, with glasses of wine and a tube of chips, take the seats directly in front of us. Quinn has to sit on my knee to see.

We sigh with Belle, singing and longing for more than her provincial life. And laugh at Lumiere and Cogsworth. I sniff and pretend to have something in my eye when the last petal falls from the enchanted rose, surely dooming the Beast and his castle’s cursed inhabitants forever. But, of course, a Disney happy ending ties everything together beautifully.

I blink away that after-movie dreaminess as we follow the wine-and-tube-chips women down the stairs. A teenage couple bluster past on their way up to see Ghost in the Shell, holding hands and popcorn, and taking selfies.

‘The roof looks like papier-mâché,’ Quinn says. ‘Or the inside of an egg carton.’

I look up at the fibrous plaster; the geometric shapes in the leadlight glow gold, green and red.

The same ceiling Phyllis and Wes stood under.

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I found Wesley Kennedy’s service records online. He enlisted in the army on 16 May 1940. He was from Preston. Age 21. Single. Occupation — theatre worker. That’s how he must have been able to wangle tickets to the Grand Picture Evening. The record doesn’t say what his actual job was — maybe an usher or projectionist; I see him more as the sweets-counter manager. It doesn’t list his place of employment either, so it could have been Hoyts in the city or any of the other local cinemas, but I like to think it was the Westgarth because Phyllis used to work at the tailor’s shop over the road. Perhaps Wes’s shifts started just as Phyllis was knocking off for the day and they watched each other from across the street, until one of them built up the courage to ask the other out. It would have been Wes — I imagine it was always the boy in those days.

Wes’s battalion embarked for the Middle East in October. He died in Syria on 24 June 1941. KILLED IN ACTION stamped in red letters at the top of his Service and Casualty form.

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A door slams, the coffee machine behind the sweets counter gurgles, the number 86 tram dings and squeals to a stop out the front.

I imagine Wes leaning against one of the pillars in the vestibule, cigarette in one hand, rose in the other, gazing — through the glass doors with bevelled edges that distort the streetscape like a prism — across at the shop that’s now a drycleaners, waiting for the girl with peek-a-boo hair.

Can’t wait to take you to the flicks again.

 

My thoughts on writing place are here.

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Writing place

 

I’m thrilled to be one of ten writers invited to participate in an exciting new
Darebin City Council initiative called Writing this Place. The project aims to uncover ‘hidden gems’ in the architectural, natural and social spaces in Darebin, and to celebrate local writers.

In a night of fun and mayhem involving bingo and raffles at the very original retro Thornbury Bowls Club, the writers were matched randomly (although I suspect some cheating may have gone on with the wheel spinning for location) with ten iconic places in Darebin. I was the lucky one to spin the wildcard, allowing me to choose my own location. The Westgarth Cinema.

We now have one month to research, explore and immerse ourselves in our matched location. And, of course, write about it — contributing to a new narrative for the city, investigating notions of place and form. Quite a challenge!

Quite terrifying, actually.

I find the short-story form daunting, and stand by whoever said it’s easier to write a novel than a short story [Or was it a long letter is easier than a short letter?].

I think I achieved a strong sense of place in both my novels. But it’s not something I sat at my computer and planned. It just kind of happened. I think it evolved after, or at least alongside, character development. Character usually comes first for me. But it’s hard to remember. I call it ‘novel amnesia’ — the thing that happens after you’ve written a book and have no idea how you did it. It’s like childbirth — a defence mechanism kicks in, making you forget the pain so you’ll go back and do it again.

I’ve tried to document my process while Writing this Place so I could share it here.

So, how to ‘write place’?

1. Researching online
For starters, I searched for information online. I found a lot of details about my place, especially the architecture. Post WWI eclectic Free Classical style; articulated engaged piers; cantilevered awning; smooth banded rustication; deep, dentillated cornice. That all sounds clever, but would make most people’s eyes glaze over, except for architects.

You need to let go of most of the technical terms and think about what the place looks like to you. Put it into your own words; give it your unique perspective.

While researching, I stumbled across war stories from the city of Darebin, which gave me the germ of an idea for a historical piece.

2. Visiting location
I know some authors have written wonderful, believable books about places they’ve never visited, but I don’t think I could ever do that. I spent time hanging around — immersing myself in my place, asking the staff questions. I even caught a movie while I was at it (research!). [Lucky I didn’t get a pub as my location.]

I took copious notes at my place. I also took photos. [Sometimes I record sounds when researching locations.]

My notes weren’t just about visuals. Sensory details drawing on all the senses bring stories to life.

When writing, think about:
Sight
Sound
Smell
Touch
Taste

3. Finding character and story
As well as WW2, I was interested in the Greek-language films that brought Northcote’s large Greek population together in the 60s and 70s. But I also wanted to incorporate present day into my narrative.

Hmm … Maybe three short story-vignettes?

Two of the three vignettes spoke louder to me, and I started weaving them into a single connected story. Finding characters and story was important for me — without them, place is just exposition.

4. Framing
I liked the idea of using frames to write about a place that showed pictures. Framing devices as well as literal door and window frames.

I try to capture subjects visually in my writing the same way a camera would. This seemed even more pertinent for this project.

Start with a close-up frame on an object or person in your story and then ‘pan’ out to a mid and/or wide shot. For example: go from a feature of a face, a brooch on a dress, and then out to the surroundings. Or start with a wide frame and then zoom in. The façade of a building, to the window, to a smaller detail on the signage. [I don’t think about this in the first draft, but when rewriting I check that I haven’t jumped around too much with the ‘framing’.]

5. Metaphor, simile and symbol
These literary devices can make your place more interesting.

Think about the green light in The Great Gatsby and the moors in Wuthering Heights.

I was interested in exploring contrasts like the dark and light spaces in a cinema. Past and present, love and loss, war and peace, life and death.

Memory is like a camera, recording the bright flashbulb moments. But what about the dark or blank spaces in between? This idea kept popping up in my thoughts.

6. Finding historical details
To get the historical details right, I visited my local library (Northcote), and the State Library Victoria for advice and information. Old newspapers and maps help build up a snapshot of a time. I was also in the wars a lot (sorry!) — searching the National Archives and War Memorial websites.

The Darebin Heritage website was another useful resource.

7. Seeking Feedback
Feedback is a very important part of the process. I can’t say I’m a big fan of it. All is happy and perfect in story land — until you ask for it. I have learnt / am still learning that seeking feedback too early on can fill you with doubt and derail your idea. Given enough time (and rewrites) you will come to a deep understanding of your story — and that’s when it’s time to ask for feedback. However, I didn’t have the luxury of time on this project. And, yes, conflicting feedback (from a few trusted readers) on my first draft did throw me off track for a while.

One point I took on board was that I had tried to include too much in my piece. I left in my [short, OK, short!] reference to the Greek films, but took out the stuff about Walter Burley Griffin and the lost building plans.

 [Also not included in my piece, but just so you know: INXS filmed the music video for ‘Listen Like Thieves’ at the Westgarth, and in 1940 double-decker buses replaced the cable trams on High Street.]

8. Other stuff
I like to use the light in my writing, and how it can alter the appearance of things. In fact I found the word ‘light’ ten times in my first (1000 word) draft! Light (harsh or soft?) can be a way of signalling to your reader that something needs to be examined.

Music inspires me. I listened to music from WW2 time while writing this piece. I wanted to include a song from the 40s in the past section, and ‘Unchained Melody’ in the present, but I restrained myself from going overboard on the sentimentality.

9. Above all
When writing about place, ask yourself:
What is the feeling here?
What is the universal truth that embodies this place?

For my place — a purpose-built picture theatre from the 1920s — it was nostalgia.

Remember this forever

My son Reece turned 14 today. Here’s a short story I wrote for him.

Remember this forever, I tell myself as I take a photograph in my mind, because you’d be embarrassed if I whipped out my phone. You’re standing just inside the high school gate — dipping your toe in, not ready to dive all the way yet. I can’t believe you’re taller than me. Your arms are crossed — the same as mine — fingers splayed, fidgeting with the sleeve of your Northcote High School shirt. Your translucent blue-green eyes flicker around, uncertain. You ask me to wait a bit. I should leave, let you go, get on with it — no other parents are hanging around — but I can’t, not until you tell me it’s OK. A friend you know from primary school approaches and your shoulders relax a little. You give me a quick, self-conscious hug; it’s OK now. I cry behind my sunglasses all the way home on the tram.

Remember this forever, I told myself as I left you playing with marbles on your first day of primary school. Your teacher was gentle; the skin around her eyes crinkled when she smiled and I believed her promise that it would be OK. I cried as I waddled home, a third baby kicking in my belly.

Remember this forever, I told myself on your first day of kindergarten. You squeezed my hand tightly and tried to hide behind my legs. Your little sister was asleep in the baby sling strapped to my chest. Her fluffy orange sweater irritated my nose. We left you kicking a ball around the big elm tree. I sat in the car for a long time, crying, before I drove home.

When I saw you for the first time — a skinny thing, covered in blood — you looked more like a rabbit in a butcher’s shop than a baby. Then the doctors whisked you away. Monitors, tubes, temperature instability, infections, blood tests, antibiotics; drips so hard to insert into tiny veins. The hands on the clock in the neo-natal intensive care unit didn’t quite reach the numbers, so it was hard to tell what the time really was. The doctors said I could touch you through the portholes of your plastic crib, but you were too fragile to hold in my arms. I imagined you falling to pieces like a broken doll. They’d put a blue-and-white beanie on your head to keep you warm. I didn’t cry when they told me to prepare for the worst, for letting go. I was looking at you and thinking that if they just let me hold you, I would never let you go.

Remember this forever, remember this forever, remember this forever.

(Published in n-Scribe, Darebin Arts journal)

Reece_isolette Reece_school

 

Remember this forever

Remember this forever, I tell myself as I take a photograph in my mind, because you’d be embarrassed if I whipped out my phone. You’re standing just inside the high school gate – dipping your toe in, not ready to dive all the way yet. I can’t believe you’re taller than me. Your arms are crossed – the same as mine – fingers splayed, fidgeting with the sleeve of your Northcote High School shirt. Your translucent blue-green eyes flicker around, uncertain. You ask me to wait a bit. I should leave, let you go, get on with it – no other parents are hanging around – but I can’t, not until you tell me it’s OK. A friend you know from primary school approaches and your shoulders relax a little. You give me a quick, self-conscious hug; it’s OK now. I cry behind my sunglasses all the way home on the tram.

Remember this forever, I told myself as I left you playing with marbles on your first day of primary school. Your teacher was gentle; the skin around her eyes crinkled when she smiled and I believed her promise that it would be OK. I cried as I waddled home, a third baby kicking in my belly.

Remember this forever, I told myself on your first day of kindergarten. You squeezed my hand tightly and tried to hide behind my legs. Your little sister was asleep in the baby sling strapped to my chest. Her fluffy orange sweater irritated my nose. We left you kicking a ball around the big elm tree. I sat in the car for a long time, crying, before I drove home.

When I saw you for the first time – a skinny thing, covered in blood – you looked more like a rabbit in a butcher’s shop than a baby. Then the doctors whisked you away. Monitors, tubes, temperature instability, infections, blood tests, antibiotics; drips so hard to insert into tiny veins. The hands on the clock in the neo-natal intensive care unit didn’t quite reach the numbers, so it was hard to tell what the time really was. The doctors said I could touch you through the portholes of your plastic crib, but you were too fragile to hold in my arms. I imagined you falling to pieces like a broken doll. They’d put a blue-and-white beanie on your head to keep you warm. I didn’t cry when they told me to prepare for the worst, for letting go. I was looking at you and thinking that if they just let me hold you, I would never let you go.

Remember this forever, remember this forever, remember this forever.

(Published in n-Scribe, Darebin Arts journal)

I cheated on NaNoWriMo

Last night I went to the Sisters in Crime Scarlet Stiletto Awards, drank too much and didn’t get up this morning to write for NaNoWriMo.

I have another confession: I cheated on NaNoWriMo. I’ve been working on a short story and yesterday I tacked it to the end of my NaNoWriMo novel to get the word count up.

I’m ready to give up. I can’t write like this. I need time to process the story.

What would Haruki Murakami say? He’d say: Get up at 4:00 am, Tania! Write and then go for a 10 km run in the afternoon.  You need power to be a good writer.

Haruki would never have cheated on NaNoWriMo.