Narratives

‘Te amo’ by Annie Broughton

‘Hula!’ ‘Hooola!’ ‘Holo!’ ‘Hola!’

I am trying to learn Spanish as I sit in the airport waiting room ready to pick up my Grandmother. She is Spanish. I am learning Spanish in an attempt to impress her. That’s a joke. I’ve got no hope of that. I toss my phrase book down and pick up a Sudoku. Let her say what she wants.

Then all of a sudden, a rush of people are coming at me from the boarding gate, among them, my Grandmother. She starts jabbering at me in Spanish, so much for trying to understand that.

‘Grandmother, I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish – remember? But I have been learning so if you spoke a bit slower maybe I could pick up a few words...?’
She looks me down and up. ‘Sat’s right. Your mama never taught you, sough I don’t know whesa you could have learned it properly any way. Hum.’
Ahhh! This woman! I try to think of something to say. Not a thing comes to mind.

‘Well, do you want to stand around like a idiot?’
‘Well then let’s go, shall we?’ I say brightly, recovering my blank and heading for the doors.
‘Not without my baggage we won’t, you silly girl.’
‘Oh right. Where’s that...?’
My Grandmother points at a painfully prominent sign pointing to the ‘Luggage Collection Area’ a look of scorn on her face.
‘Right.’

We collect her baggage and drive home. My car is too small. Too yellow. My driving too slow. My dreadlocks ate disgusting. Waving at the mail man when I see him at a red light is too flirtatious.
All the while I try to remain bright and cheerful.
‘That’s your opinion, Grandmother.’
‘I’m just being friendly, Grandmother.’

Then we get home. My house is too small, too noisy, too messy. I grin and bear it. Then Grandmother needs a nap. I sink on to the couch. Oh man, this woman is supposed to be staying with me for the next week and a half. I am going to go insane. However... if I managed to convince her that I was at least worth being civil to...

I tidy the house, vacuum, have a shower, I change clothes, I buy flowers from across the road and arrange them on the table, I turn off The Killers and replace it with Beethoven’s 5th symphony. And I make a huge, delicious dinner. Roast lamb, cranberry sauce, gravy, carrots, broccoli, peas, cheese buns, lemonade. Custard and chocolate cake. It takes me four hours and three quarter hours. I serve it on my mom’s best plates.

She’ll tell me it’s the best food she’s ever tasted. She’ll tell me the house is immaculate. The flowers smell heavenly. She’ll tell me I’m amazing and not a lowly, weird hoodlum with a stupid job after all. She’ll pick me up and spin me round the room as she sings me Spanish love songs... ok maybe not that. And then I hear a tap tap, tap tap. Grandmother’s heels on the hall floor. I take a deep breath, she opens the door.
‘¡Hola Grandmother! Come sit down.’ I watch her eyes widen ever so slightly as she sees the table, the flowers, my dress, the room. Yes! She sits down. I sit down.
‘It’s so great to have you here, grandmother.’
‘Yes indeed.’ I decide to ignore her sarcastic tone.
‘Right then.’ I begin to eat and so does she. I steal a look at her. Her face is expressionless.
‘So, do you like it?’ I ask finally. My heart is beating, my hands sweaty.
‘Hum. The carrots are zlightly overcooked’

This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I tried so hard. Why could she not just say she liked it? But no the carrots were ever so slightly over cooked. Crap, I’m sick of this. And words come exploding from my mouth. ‘Well I’m sorry!’ I stand up and my chair crashes to the ground behind me. Grandmother is staring at me, her face frozen.
‘I’m sorry that your carrots are slightly overcooked! Never mind that I slaved for hours to make this for you, because that doesn’t mean anything if the carrots are over cooked.’ Grandmother springs to her feet, her face red.
‘You know I don’t ever know why you bother to stay with me. You hate me. Everything about me is wrong. Why don’t you just stick to being a tourist, I know that I’m only excuse to come see New Zealand. Why do you bother to come see me at all? I don’t mind if you don’t. Actually it would make my life a whole lot easier if you didn’t.’

Grandmother’s face is pale now.
‘So, so why don’t you just leave?’
‘Well!’ says my Grandmother. She picks up her handbag and stalks out, slamming the door.
Oh crap, what have I done? I never exploded at anyone like that. She hated me before, she’s probably ready to murder me now. And yet, I feel sort of calm. I finally told her. Yeah I said it honey. Uhuh! Oh crap. Sweet. Darn. I don’t know what to think. My brain is a mixed up mess. A stew pot of emotions. Slowly I sit down and eat the rest of my dinner, then hers. Then I go to bed.

The next day I try and decide what to do. Try and contact her? How? What would I say? Apologise? Or expect her to? So go to an auction for second hand furniture, looking for stock for my shop. Tactfully, I leave the back door unlocked and Grandmother’s suitcase is gone when I get back. It isn’t until after dinner that night that I notice a pastel blue envelope on my bed. I open it. Inside is a card with two roses intertwined on the front. I open the card.

‘To dear Sophie

My darling granddaughter, do you know why I came all the way over to New Zealand? It was not to see the sights, it was to see you, my Spanish, American, New Zealand rose. I am sorry for my rude remarks, for putting you down, not just this trip, but all your life. I am so truly sorry. I was, am sad that you, your Mama and family chose to live so far away (America!) and you even further. My sadness comes out as meanness. But this is no excuse. I am sorry Sophie. I hope someday you may forgive me. You are a beautiful young woman, don’t change one bit, you are perfect just the way you are.

Te amo.

‘I look up Te amo in the Spanish phrase book.

‘I love you.’

I put my head down on the table and cry. She loves me. My Grandmother truly loves me.

September 2009

A Day at Reception

By James Galloway

The telephone rings. I cringe knowing what task will await me this time. I look at who is calling. It’s Emily. Again. Emily had always been the looker in our group and even though she would deny it to anyone who would listen, all the boys in the school looked at her. They goggled at her waist length flowing blond hair, her perfect skin looking like velvet and even her deep blue eyes that sparkled in the sunlight like a thousand glimmering crystals. And then they look at me. All they can do is gag when they look who Cinderella is friends with. They are repulsed by me. From my short brown curly hair and my two buck teeth, all the way down to my two left feet. I envy Emily Rosewater.

My mind wanders as Emily goes into depth about all the recent events in her life including her husband getting a new job in a foreign country and blah, blah, blah. Eventually Emily is doing all the work talking while I file my nails and answer with the occasional yup, yes, maybe. I smile to myself knowing that in only two weeks time I will be enjoying a martini on the golden beaches of California. The wind will be rustling through my all too short hair; the sky will be a shade of deep blue stretching on for miles. Just like Emily’s eyes. I’m greeted back to reality with the high pitched obnoxious sound of Emily’s voice saying a goodbye and hoping to see me soon. I don’t return the favour. I drop the phone not even bothering to put it on the hook, leaving it hanging like a pendulum.

My boss walks in. I quickly immerse myself in some paperwork and muster up the best fake smile I can and glower it towards him. He barely mutters a grunt. Nothing unusual there. I’ve been his receptionist for twenty-one years and he still probably doesn’t know my name. Oh well, only a few more weeks left to go. Two weeks till I will leave my job forever without saying a single thank-you or goodbye. He throws some paperwork in a tray for me and without a second glance walks into his office and slams the door. Taking a leaf out of his book, I pick up the paperwork and put it in the shredder without a second glance. Revenge is sweet.

SCREECH!! A car pulls up and without the sound of nails down a blackboard sending chills down my spine. A faint smell of burning rubber dances with my nose. I would recognize that driving anywhere. Emily Rosewater is in the building. Panic. “Ok, ok, calm down Rachael your doing fine just breathe and you will soon be out of this mess” even my own words of encouragement can’t calm me down. Could I jump out the window? No that’s shut and it leads right out to the car park. I look around the room for a suitable hiding place but it’s too late. My heart shatters as I hear the first sliding doors open. The reception is designed in such a way that it is impossible to see who is coming until they reach the front desk. Three clanking eight-inch-high-heeled footsteps later, the second doors open. I gasp.

I quickly busy myself in some filing that needed to be done three weeks ago to stifle my laughter. It’s still the same try-hard Emily. Wearing a clashing outfit of pink and purple consisting of a tight fitting leather tank top, fluoro jeans bursting at the seams and a bright green handbag, she still looks more pretty than me. Her hair however looks impeccable and if not silkier than before. Looking at her teeth though makes me gasp; it looks like she hasn’t completely digested last nights meal as there are sill bits of food crammed in between her perfect teeth. Laughing to myself I remember a new initiative to offer complementary toothpaste to the guests.

“Emily! What a surprise. It’s been too long!” Hopefully she doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm. “I know and it’s so exciting that we will be seeing a lot more of each other shortly,” she trills in a voice a few octaves above mine. She is obviously too self absorbed to notice my sarcasm. I wonder in my head what she means however; hopefully we won’t be seeing any more of her. Even two minutes is too much of Emily.

My boss re emerges from his hermit peeking out through the door casually to start with then fully enters the general public. He chuckles to himself and shows a toothy grin- something that doesn’t happen too often.
“Emily! Welcome. How are you?”
My boss never talks to me like that and it makes me envy her even more.
“Ah, you must be Mr. Brick. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I prefer the term Dr. Brick if you don’t mind.”
He turns his attention to me.
“Rachael, this is Emily although she tells me you two know each other from high school, so I won’t diddle daddle with introductions. Rachael, I’d like to introduce you to the latest addition to the team. She has come a long way to be here with us and since you know her best I’ll give you the honour of showing her around. Otherwise back to work!”

Great! Two weeks of non-stop giggling and obnoxious talking. Two weeks. Only two weeks. The last hurdle till I’m on holiday.
Delightful.

August 2009

Boris

by Jono Mingard

‘Waitomo caves’ whispered out from the postcard, in the small white writing that appears to be standard on postcards everywhere. A rather drab picture of a cave mouth supplemented the words.

The postcard was proudly titled ‘Waitomo Caves’ and showed a picture of a dingy cave mouth lit up by medieval-looking beams. A man stares at it, a slight smile on his face, weighing up the fun of buying it along with a pen, a NZ made diary, a toy kiwi and sheep pencilcase (which starter is better?)

The man peering at it showed a boyish enthusiasm as he rustled toward the counter with his souvenirs. There was no doubt in his mind as to whether he would prefer the pen, the fridge magnet, the toy kiwi and the sheep pencil case or hours less nagging from his wife.

A friendly greeting to the shop assistant and a sunburnt hand began digging through the pockets of the man’s anorak, still damp though he had been inside the kiosk well over two hours. After searching through almost ten pockets in several items of clothing the hand reappeared clutching a withered wallet. The shopkeeper’s eyes were all fir the contents however, as the man in steel-rimmmed glasses began sorting through a fat wad of $100 notes. As the man turned away from the counter clutching his purchases, from deep inside his anorak, came a persistent vibration. His shock of silver hair flopped down over his eyes as he reached into an inner pocket. Pulling out a shiny iPhone he frowned at it and eventually stabbed at the screen. The voice at the other end spoke almost before the phone had reached the man’s ear. It was the sort of voice that demands obedience and promises terrible punishments. This man had come into the Corps as a drill sergeant and had never lost the voice. It boomed out over the kiosk so the shopkeeper couldn’t help hearing it. He just helped his ears along a bit by leaning curiously over the desk.
“Boris, Sir, we need your help.”
The man in the anorak’s face fell and became grim as a cast iron gate. He spoke curtly.
“I’m on vacation. And modulate that vocalisation.”
Gone was the enthusiasm that had caused him to stop at ther gravel drive with the dilapidated sign outside. The man made to put the phone back down when the voice answered, somewhat more quietly. The shopkeeper only caught a few snatches.
“Sir..quick. It…mergency…”
“Please elucidate on this deplorable state of affairs.”
Somehow ‘Boris, Sir’ had contrived to make his voice sound curious, shocked and gravelly, a far cry from the light melody of earlier.
“…hacker, Boris…through…only the …left.”
Boris swore under his breath. “How long?”
“…seems to be holding….hours possibly…day.”
“It’ll take me that duration to return to HQ, even operating an aeronautical machine.” Now Boris sounded worried.

“It would be beyond my abilities. Perhaps.”
“Rex is on its way.”
The shopkeeper heard all of that, before several things happened. There was a roar, a solid blast of sound. It left no time for conscious thought, just unconscious reaction. All of the shopkeeper’s considerable bulk vanished under the desk. An instant later, all that was left was a diminishing whine. Boris still stood in the middle of the floor. Very slowly he reached up and pulled the plugs out of his ears.
“That was loud.”
Suddenly the shopkeeper felt a gun barrel pressing into his curled up spine. All he could see were Kevlar-covered boots. The table was overturned with a crash that seemed tinny to his travelled ears, and he saw a grizzled craggy face staring down at him from underneath a black helmet. If the shopkeeper had had enough of a life to watch Star Wars he would have said that the man looked like a stormtrooper.
The stormtrooper’s eyes bored into his and he frantically looked away. The last thing he saw before the butt of the gun crashed into his temple was the man in the anorak boarding a sleek black fighter plane.

As the plane’s SCRAM jets pushed the mass of circuitry past the sound barrier Boris sat down at a computer terminal and an incomprehensibly fast stream of blips streamed up to a waiting satellite. Boosters roared, or would have done if it wasn’t space, and the satellite ponderously turned to face a concealed aerial, thousands of miles below.

August 2009

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