A Web Of Stories

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A Web Of Stories - book excerpt

An Unexpected Train Journey

            Six months ago, I boarded the Vic-rail train at Traralgon station to travel to Bairnsdale. A forty-one-year-old working man does not catch economy class public transport if he has a vehicle of his own – but I had just put mine out of action in the hilly forest-country north of Traralgon. I had completely torn out the under-carriage of my trusty old Toyota Landcruiser. Hence, on that windy Friday night, I would be slumming it on the train.

            The train journey to Bairnsdale always seems to do one of two things to me. Either I end up listening to the life story of some wretched stranger, or my mind is saturated with painful memories. There is something about a train journey that makes me reflect.

On this journey, I really wanted to avoid reflection. I had lived two very different lives and I was trying to forget them both. In the end, I had to choose one or the other to brood upon – so I chose my first life – the first thirty years of my life that I lived in Australia. My secret second life, which I had made for myself in Japan, was unknown to anyone that I knew in Australia – not even my immediate family. They will never know. There is nothing left of it, anyway.

            As I boarded the train, a slim brunette woman ahead of me reminded me sharply of Helen. There was a terrible shock of recognition – then she turned around. It was not Helen after all. This lady had a kind face.

            I sighed bitterly.

            Thanks for reminding me of my first wife.

            Helen was an astonishingly attractive woman. I am struck now, as I was then, by the sudden memory of her.

            Dark brown eyes with a hidden agenda. Long dark hair, soft lips, and curvy, lean figure…white, ample cleavage.

             A passionate memory of sex stirred me.

            Textures and smells and wild animal longings. The smell of her conditioner. Her lips on my neck. My fingers lifting the elastic cup of her bra.

            I exhaled and then tensed as her betrayal suddenly accosted me. Desire, guilt and rage brawled for my mood.

            A memory. A scar. Let it go.

            The train was full of loud and drunk miscreants – smelly, bawdy, and inescapable. The men I passed as I sauntered down the aisle were aged between about eighteen and fifty. Mostly lower-class whites, but also a handful of aborigines. Everywhere I looked: beer guts, tattoos and five o’clock shadows. A few of them were young fathers; their brats drawing on the seats. They eyed me up and down coolly, with a trace of menace.

            I returned their looks. None of them were a match for me.

            I looked their women over. Most of them were over-painted and screeching over a can of some alcoholic drink. Hideous creatures – all flannelette and wrinkles, stained teeth and clown-like make-up. They looked me over approvingly. I gave them an amiable grin – but not too amiable.

            “Darl’, I’m goin’ for a smoke.” Cawed a particularly horrid woman. Her voice recalled a thousand nights in smoke-filled pubs. “Watch the kids and get one of ‘em to yell out if the inspector comes.”

            I shuddered. She had large hoop earrings, copious eye shadow, and hair permed to hell. I started at her long, dark red nails – probably a throw-back to her harpy ancestors.

            “How’s it goin’?” She grinned.

            “Good thanks. You?” I returned politely.

            “Hmph. Could be better, but why complain? No one gives a fuck, eh?”

            “I suppose not.” I shrugged as I moved away.

            I hate these people.

            Then I saw him in the corner by himself, his attention deeply engaged in a copy of “The complete works of Oscar Wilde”.

This was a coincidence of some magnitude. I had caught the train to come to Bairnsdale with the express intention of seeking this young man out – and there he was in front of me.

Tristram Jones was sometimes handsome, but never striking. Tall, lean and strong, he had his dad’s broad shoulders and large forehead. His nose was prominent, but well proportioned and his face was neither rounded nor square. He had a confident and intelligent expression, with more humour in his face than when he was a boy. His almond, hazel eyes were still bright and perceptive. He was wearing navy cargo pants, and a black denim jacket. I had known him since he was ten and could hardly believe that he was now twenty-nine.

            As I moved in, an aborigine approached Tristram from the opposite side of the train. His clothing reeked of beer and cigarette smoke, his hair was oily and his eyes were glazed. He was probably in his early forties.

            “Oi…’scuse me, brudda.” The aborigine drawled, patting Tristram on the shoulder.

            Tristram looked up and smiled warmly at him. “Yes?”

            “You gotta spare cigarette, mate?”

            “Nah…sorry, mate, I don’t smoke, eh?”

Tristram waited patiently for his response to register, and his analytical eyes did a quick sweep over the man.

            “Oh…” The man mumbled finally.

            An elderly woman sitting opposite Tristram, sat in an uncomfortable and judgemental silence. The man considered her briefly. She was unapproachable, as she looked determinedly at the night rushing by the window. He turned to Tristram again, who was still paying attention to him.

            Click-clack went the train…

            “Goddolla?”

            “Hmm?”

            “You got any spare change?”

            “Um…yeah, let me just check – I might be able to help ya.” Tristram pulled out his wallet and gave the man a handful of shrapnel. “There ya are – that’s all the change I got.”

            “Good on ya, brudda. Thanks, mate. Take it easy, eh?”

            “No worries, mate. You too.”

As the wretch staggered away towards the refreshment car, Tristram smiled and shrugged at the old lady.

            “You could have pretended not to hear him.” She smiled sympathetically.

            “No…that’d be rude, and there’s no need for that.”

            “He was rude. His behaviour was disgraceful.”

“He was just asking for what he wanted.” Tristram shrugged.

“He is putting strangers on the spot for money. And your charity only reinforces it, you know. As your hero Oscar Wilde once said, charity creates a multitude of sins.”

            “Alright! Alright!” Tristram exclaimed jovially. “Jesus, lady, nobody is perfect. He who is totally uncharitable cast the first stone!”

            I chose that moment to throw my empty drink bottle at him. He caught it quickly just before it hit his face. His reflexes had improved markedly since he was last in my own dojo. I think he was pleasantly surprised by them himself.

            He frowned, then looked up at me, recognised me and beamed. “This is not a stone.”

            “Hello, Tristram Jones.”

            “Ivan MacAllister!” Tristram boomed heartily and stood up to shake my hand. “I don’t believe it! I have been thinking of you all day!”

            “No kidding? I was coming to Bairnsdale to look you up.”

            “No shit? Well, lucky I met you on the train. I live in Melbourne now.”

            “Yeah? Well, I figured you would be back in Bairnsdale this Saturday morning anyway.” I answered with a knowing smile.

            Tristram returned the smile. “So, you did get my email. Well, sit down and let’s catch up. It’s only been twelve years!”

            I hoisted my backpack up onto the bag rail and sat down next to him.

            “Elspeth,” He began, “This is Ivan MacAllister. He taught me martial arts when I was a kid, and then English when I was in high school. Ivan, this is Elspeth Lawson, a very nice lady who has patiently put up with nearly two hours of my waffle.”

            “Not at all, it has been a most interesting conversation. I think I have learned more zoology in the last two hours than I have in my whole life.” Elspeth interjected charmingly.

Elspeth was not quite the stereotypical old lady that I had first supposed. Her grey hair was long and flowed about her shoulders, and she wore a heavy purple dress that had sapphire floral patterns. She had well developed crow’s feet about her intelligent dark blue eyes.

“Anyway, Ivan,” Tristram continued exuberantly, “Elspeth has lived a very interesting life. She has travelled through Hungary recently, lived in Vienna and painted in Switzerland. Now she has decided to be a teacher – despite her potential.”

Suddenly, our conversation was interrupted by the nasal screech of the awful woman who had spoken to me earlier.

“Bradley! Stop fuckin’ around and give me back me smokes! Jesus Christ, don’t ya know how to behave in public? Now siddown an’ drink ya Coke before ya dad goes crook at ya again. What? Ya finished? Alright, ya can have the rest of this UDL.”

Tristram raised his eyebrows, then muttered to us. “UDL? That would be soft drink with vodka in it. Way to go, Mum.”

As I considered the woman and her snot-nosed child, a hot surge of resentement accosted me.

“It’s just so damn stupid, isn’t it? Thoughtless, moronic and irresponsible.”

Tristram searched my face.

“It’s not the best idea, no.” He conceded with a shrug.

“Children are precious things.” I continued, a bitterness bubbling out of me from nowhere. “Yet…well…they are given by chance to any pair of deadshits who fuck, aren’t they?”

I noticed that Elspeth was taken aback.

“Excuse me.” I smiled, calming down. “It’s been a long day – a long year, actually.”

Elspeth nodded politely. “Things like that do make you wonder how we made it this far as a species.”

“Not really. Evolution is not survival of the fittest – it’s survival of those who breed.” Tristram rejoined.

“Do you seriously believe that? That seems very cynical.” Elspeth asked.

Crows feet tightened about Tristram’s eyes. “I don’t seriously believe anything anymore. I knew everything at fourteen and nothing at twenty-one. I am getting more ignorant with each passing year.”

Elspeth chuckled. “Well said.”

“So, Ivan?” Tristram began, his perceptive hazel eyes considering me. “Why did you get so angry just now about that woman and her child?”

“Heh. Did I? Well, I don’t know. I am tired and impatient and a bit out of sorts – that’s all. Nothing that requires any kind of deep psychoanalysis.” I returned with a cool smile.

“Heh.” Tristram beamed. “Fair enough.”

It was time to deflect, and I had just the thing.

“So, Tristram, are you a racist?”

He frowned. “Hmph. That’s quite a segue. Why do you ask?”

“I just saw you give all your spare change to a koori man.”

“Yeah? So?”

“I wonder if you would have done so if he was white.” I rejoined.

Tristram thought about it.

“I don’t know. But I felt a bit guilty when he asked – I felt I needed to give it to him.”

“Why?”

Tristram turned to Elspeth. “When I was growing up, I knew an aboriginal elder called Fred Morris. He liked me and I liked him, and we shared a special friendship – or at least, we should have. But I never really visited Fred as often as I meant to – in fact, I haven’t seen him in years. And tomorrow… well, tomorrow Ivan and I are going to his funeral.”

Elspeth nodded understanding. “You were unconsciously giving change to your old friend, Fred?”

Tristram returned a vulnerable smile. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know…maybe.”

Elspeth sighed. “Well, this conversation suddenly got very deep!”

“Heh. Ivan and I do that.” Tristram explained fondly. “In this case, Ivan did it as a deflection because he doesn’t want me to pry into the reasons behind his anger at that bogan woman giving alcohol to her child.”

“Heh. Now, on the subject of deflection…” I began with a grin.

“Ha! He’s at it again!”

“I recently read your novel – at least part one. That was all you sent me.”

“So, the attachment to my email worked?”

“Yes. Have you written any more?”

“Oh yes. You remind me, that I need your permission for something.” Tristram eyed me cheekily.

“You are writing about me?”

“Yes, but I am doing that whether you like it or not. What I was referring to was Melvin Dubrelle’s account.”

“Heh. That story really struck a chord with you, didn’t it? You have been obsessed with the bunyip for years.” I smiled fondly.

“It’s my favourite work of fiction.”

I flinched at those words, but Tristram didn’t notice as he explained our situation to Elspeth.

“I realise that our conversation has suddenly taken an unexpected turn, Elspeth. But this subject is much more interesting. Have you ever heard of the bunyip?”

“Yes, of course I have.”

“Well, I wrote a novella about one – and my novella was inspired by an account that our good friend Ivan had inherited from his great, great grandfather. Ivan believes, rather optimistically, that there might be some truth in the account, and that one of his ancestors saw a bunyip.”

“Really? Well, that is interesting.”

“It’s got bushrangers, Scottish highlanders, a bunyip and a witch doctor!” Tristram beamed. “What more could you ask for in a tale?”

“Tristram was inspired by the account, because he was in possession of an opal like that described in my ancestor’s tale. His grandfather also talked of an encounter with a man that fitted the description of a witch doctor in my ancestor’s account.”

“Yes…a witch doctor. Elspeth…there is a man out there – with orange eyes and a peculiar walk – who thinks he is the very same witch doctor from that old tale.” Tristram added, his eyes sparkling. “He gave us a bit of trouble, didn’t he, Ivan?”

“Dinewan.” I nodded, and my jaw clenched at the thought of him.

“Excuse me?” Elspeth asked.

“His name is Dinewan.” I answered. “It means Emu.”

“This is very intriguing.” Elspeth remarked. “I’d love to read these stories.”

Tristram suddenly stood up and searched through his bag up on the bag rail. He pulled out several folders, each with pages of text. He handed the thickest one to Elspeth.

“This is my novella.” He announced proudly, with a lively grin. “I’ve called your bluff, Elspeth. If you really want to read it, now is your opportunity. Publication is a little way off, I think. I have the rest of the novel to write – which is what is in these folders.”

Elspeth opened the folder good naturedly, and dutifully flicked through the pages.

“I’m kidding of course.” Tristram smiled humbly. “You don’t have to read it. But if you want to-”

“I will need you to shut up and let me read.” Elspeth interjected playfully as she put on some fine-framed glasses.

Tristram blinked. “Right then. Thank you.”

He sat down, grinned and shrugged at me.

“So Tristram,” I began. “I’m eager for details. First or third person narrative?”

“Third.” He replied seriously. “I want to give the illusion of objectivity. Ideally, I would like to write in both first and third person, but I’m not clever enough to figure out how to do that.”

“Character driven or plot driven?”

“Character driven, of course.” He beamed. “Plot is merely an excuse for characters to interact.”

“Is it autobiographical in anyway?”

He smiled sheepishly. “It is inspired in part from my own experiences – but I have taken giant liberties with the truth.”

I chuckled at him.

“When do I get to read this masterpiece?”

“As I write it, Ivan. There is some history between us that has found its way into my writing. I would like you to have some input as to how it all works out.”

“I’d be delighted, Tristram.” I answered, disguising my anxiety with my most confident smile.

He handed me a skinny folder with some loose pages of text.

“Have a read of this and tell me what you think.”

“What is it?”

“Among other things, it’s how we first met.”

What follows is what I read.