These stories are primarily for an audience older than 18. They contain adult themes.
The Emancipation of Elanora Pickle
The new year started with a buzz.
“Have you seen the new bursar?” Mr Thistlethwaite said at morning tea. “Miss Summer. A slip of a thing. Legs to die for. Could be a movie star!” He was talking to Mr Smythe, Master of Mathematics. “In with a chance, eh, Smythe! She’s meant to be a wiz at accounts. Revolutionised the fee system apparently. All up front now! Cash!”
Smythe looked up from his paper. “Up front? How‘d she manage that?”
Thistlethwaite laughed. “Deals directly with the fathers. Insists on it. They melt like pocketed chocolate.”
“’bout time we had something decent to look at.” They stared across at Miss Pickle in her trouser suit and comfortable shoes. “Poor woman,” smirked Smythe. “Wouldn’t know what to do with a skirt!”
Elanora Pickle had taught the thankless daughters of wealthy bankers and industrialists for ten years. History. She was thorough and efficient. Highly predictable.
“Boring as batshit.” Thistlethwaite had said and all agreed. No one ever inquired about Miss Pickle’s weekends or holidays. They imagined her pouring over her papers well into the night. No social life at all.
It was a shock when Miss Summer joined them at lunch. Thistlethwaite and Smythe made room for her at the table. “Shove over Pickle!”
Elanora blushed as her eyes fell upon the curves and smile of the new bursar.
“Thankyou,” Miss Summer said softly, but she had not said it to the men. Instead she held the gaze of Miss Pickle firmly in her own.
Elanora felt her heart race and her cheeks grow hot. “Excuse me,” with hands shaking and tea cup rattling, she got to her feet. “I have some papers to mark.” Miss Summer blushed.
As Elanora left the room she heard Smythe laughing. “Don’t worry about Pickle, Miss Summer, she’s a lost cause.”
The next day Miss Summer was waiting at the table. “Miss Pickle,” she smiled. “Will you join me?”
Elanora froze. Her heart thundered in her chest. “I….” she stammered.
Miss Summer leaned forward in her chair, a curious expression on her face. Slowly her finger pushed forward what Elanora now saw was a steaming cup of tea. “Russian Caravan,” she whispered. Elanora looked up from the tea, confused. Miss Summer’s smile broadened. “For escape.”
Miss Pickle felt her blood rocket through her veins. She looked at Miss Summer: her face exquisite, young and fresh and impossibly beautiful. In that moment she knew if she sat there, beside her, drinking in her perfume and hearing her voice, watching the curve of her mouth and those deep red lips, she would be unable to control herself.
“Thankyou,” managed Miss Pickle. “But I can’t.”
Miss Summer studied her face for a moment. Her lips opened. “Tomorrow, Elanora.” She blew Miss Pickle a kiss. “Tomorrow.”
Sleep avoided Miss Pickle that night. By morning she was tired and pale.
"God Pickle!” frowned Smythe. “You look a fright!”
“Pickle!” announced Thistlethwaite bursting through the door. “You’re for it now! Summer wants to see you!”
Smythe frowned as she took her cup to the sink. “Probably give you a good seeing to. You could at least try to be sociable. Make some sort of effort!” As Elanora left the room she heard Smythe gloating. “That Summer’s hot for me. This morning I asked her if she’d like any help with her books. She told me to come back this afternoon after she returns from the bank. You know there’s not one school fee outstanding. That girl’s worth her weight in gold!”
They didn’t hear the click of the handle as Elanora Pickle closed the door.
No-one noticed an hour later as Miss Pickle grabbed her coat and exited the building. She wouldn’t have classes until the afternoon. Nor did anyone question Miss Summer as she slipped out of her office five minutes after that. She was carrying her hat and a briefcase. Banking she’d written on a sheet of paper on her desk.
At first people had wondered about the two women who had lived for years at number 36. Sisters they’d said and everyone had nodded with relief. Few wondered when they left for the airport in a taxi. One carried a briefcase.
“Paris. First class.” said the one with movie star looks as she played with the fingers of the other. “Miss Pickle, I’ll be giving you a good seeing-to!”
“Miss Summer,” laughed Miss Pickle, kicking off her sensible shoes. “You’re a very naughty girl!”
The new year started with a buzz.
“Have you seen the new bursar?” Mr Thistlethwaite said at morning tea. “Miss Summer. A slip of a thing. Legs to die for. Could be a movie star!” He was talking to Mr Smythe, Master of Mathematics. “In with a chance, eh, Smythe! She’s meant to be a wiz at accounts. Revolutionised the fee system apparently. All up front now! Cash!”
Smythe looked up from his paper. “Up front? How‘d she manage that?”
Thistlethwaite laughed. “Deals directly with the fathers. Insists on it. They melt like pocketed chocolate.”
“’bout time we had something decent to look at.” They stared across at Miss Pickle in her trouser suit and comfortable shoes. “Poor woman,” smirked Smythe. “Wouldn’t know what to do with a skirt!”
Elanora Pickle had taught the thankless daughters of wealthy bankers and industrialists for ten years. History. She was thorough and efficient. Highly predictable.
“Boring as batshit.” Thistlethwaite had said and all agreed. No one ever inquired about Miss Pickle’s weekends or holidays. They imagined her pouring over her papers well into the night. No social life at all.
It was a shock when Miss Summer joined them at lunch. Thistlethwaite and Smythe made room for her at the table. “Shove over Pickle!”
Elanora blushed as her eyes fell upon the curves and smile of the new bursar.
“Thankyou,” Miss Summer said softly, but she had not said it to the men. Instead she held the gaze of Miss Pickle firmly in her own.
Elanora felt her heart race and her cheeks grow hot. “Excuse me,” with hands shaking and tea cup rattling, she got to her feet. “I have some papers to mark.” Miss Summer blushed.
As Elanora left the room she heard Smythe laughing. “Don’t worry about Pickle, Miss Summer, she’s a lost cause.”
The next day Miss Summer was waiting at the table. “Miss Pickle,” she smiled. “Will you join me?”
Elanora froze. Her heart thundered in her chest. “I….” she stammered.
Miss Summer leaned forward in her chair, a curious expression on her face. Slowly her finger pushed forward what Elanora now saw was a steaming cup of tea. “Russian Caravan,” she whispered. Elanora looked up from the tea, confused. Miss Summer’s smile broadened. “For escape.”
Miss Pickle felt her blood rocket through her veins. She looked at Miss Summer: her face exquisite, young and fresh and impossibly beautiful. In that moment she knew if she sat there, beside her, drinking in her perfume and hearing her voice, watching the curve of her mouth and those deep red lips, she would be unable to control herself.
“Thankyou,” managed Miss Pickle. “But I can’t.”
Miss Summer studied her face for a moment. Her lips opened. “Tomorrow, Elanora.” She blew Miss Pickle a kiss. “Tomorrow.”
Sleep avoided Miss Pickle that night. By morning she was tired and pale.
"God Pickle!” frowned Smythe. “You look a fright!”
“Pickle!” announced Thistlethwaite bursting through the door. “You’re for it now! Summer wants to see you!”
Smythe frowned as she took her cup to the sink. “Probably give you a good seeing to. You could at least try to be sociable. Make some sort of effort!” As Elanora left the room she heard Smythe gloating. “That Summer’s hot for me. This morning I asked her if she’d like any help with her books. She told me to come back this afternoon after she returns from the bank. You know there’s not one school fee outstanding. That girl’s worth her weight in gold!”
They didn’t hear the click of the handle as Elanora Pickle closed the door.
No-one noticed an hour later as Miss Pickle grabbed her coat and exited the building. She wouldn’t have classes until the afternoon. Nor did anyone question Miss Summer as she slipped out of her office five minutes after that. She was carrying her hat and a briefcase. Banking she’d written on a sheet of paper on her desk.
At first people had wondered about the two women who had lived for years at number 36. Sisters they’d said and everyone had nodded with relief. Few wondered when they left for the airport in a taxi. One carried a briefcase.
“Paris. First class.” said the one with movie star looks as she played with the fingers of the other. “Miss Pickle, I’ll be giving you a good seeing-to!”
“Miss Summer,” laughed Miss Pickle, kicking off her sensible shoes. “You’re a very naughty girl!”
The Verandah
Light paints the verandah with a warmth I knew as a child. It comforts me, and deceives me, this winter sun. I sit here on the wicker chair we bought together not so long ago and I’m afraid to move.
To move would be to step towards the future, but I cannot. I will sit here today, as I did yesterday, and try to convince myself that you are still alive.
You were my story teller, the keeper of my history. All I am and all I was has stopped with your breathing and I don’t know how to go forward. To go backwards is to see you struggle on the floor, grappling with a death you did not understand.
Long ribbons of sunlight splash now upon the garden, dripping golden heat into the winter-chilled soil. You loved the garden and the roses we planted are stretching against the lattice, sending green and burgundy shoots towards the sky. Can you see them? Do you watch the weeds of pumpkin and tomato breaking through the mulch to compete with the blue-flowered rosemary and purple daisy? Are you shaking your head and wondering when I will weed the bed I put in for you only a few months ago? Do you see me as I sit here, wearing your pyjamas until they are yellowed with grief and time?
The house grows dusty. Your cigarettes and lighter are where you left them. Your bed, your chair, your books, the little notes you wrote daily… all unchanged… as though they are waiting for your voice to animate them. Only you could give them life.
I have not washed your sheets and I asked the hospital for your clothes – that favourite dressing gown they cut from you here, trying to keep you living.
I called to you then. Told you everything would be alright. I placed my mouth on yours to breath my own life into you. My love into you. I felt your saliva mingle with my own. Warm and sweet. Mother’s milk.
I did not taste Death. But I felt it waiting. Close. In the air around your warm body. It had waited in the corners of the room for weeks. Patient and assured. You had seen it and warned me, but I would not speak of it. Though I felt its breath in your fear.
The jessemine will scent the garden with the sweetest air in the Spring. You loved to smell it, taking in long, deep breaths of its orange perfume and saying how lovely it was. Will you smell it, then, when its little buds crack open to this light and radiate into the garden? Will the perfume I have grown to love so much wound my senses like poison because you won’t be with me, here, on the verandah; making every day safe… telling me that you love me, that I am your little girl?
You were protection for me long after I grew tall and old enough to have no excuses. You were my sanction, the blessing on my life. You knew my secrets and accepted every aspect of the choices I have made. Some may never have understood your open-mindedness, your gentle acceptance of the life I chose to lead. But they do not know me as you knew me. They did not know you as I knew you. Their wounds will not have the same shape or depth as the wound of my grief. They will not lose as much blood.
Wisteria survives long after the frame on which it is stretched has rotted into the ground. Its branches are strong and able to support the weight of heavy purple blossoms. It thrives on the pruning of its limbs. In tribute to its frame it follows the line and form which gave it shape. Growing. Enhancing. Building itself into an object of beauty.
Did you think it would be the same for me?
It is strange how all these years of growing have resulted in this frozen child: broken and foetal from the winter of your absence. The elastic years snap me back to my beginnings and leave me helpless and vulnerable. No longer adult in a world stripped of you.
The full weight of the years to come press me to this chair. Crushing, black years. Perfume will be poured into these open wounds every Spring. Sharp orange and thorny rose. Winter’s hands will claw my throat and drag me yearly to this place and the sound of your silence. Night’s dark heart will beat the pulse of every hour your chair remains empty. I will rot with this wood and this cane as pumpkin vines fill the garden and tomatoes choke the daisies. I will dissolve into the patina of light upon the wall.
The papers have collected, unread, on the table. Testimony that the world has kept turning and days have passed. But not for me. I sit here, disconnected from the world, contained in my grief. The sun will go down in a few hours and I will go inside. Tomorrow I will take my place on the verandah... and wait.
siobhan colman 1995
published in 2Flaunt 2009
What you've just read is probably my most personal piece. For a long time after my mother died I couldn't write at all. And then, when i could, this found its way on to the page.
Light paints the verandah with a warmth I knew as a child. It comforts me, and deceives me, this winter sun. I sit here on the wicker chair we bought together not so long ago and I’m afraid to move.
To move would be to step towards the future, but I cannot. I will sit here today, as I did yesterday, and try to convince myself that you are still alive.
You were my story teller, the keeper of my history. All I am and all I was has stopped with your breathing and I don’t know how to go forward. To go backwards is to see you struggle on the floor, grappling with a death you did not understand.
Long ribbons of sunlight splash now upon the garden, dripping golden heat into the winter-chilled soil. You loved the garden and the roses we planted are stretching against the lattice, sending green and burgundy shoots towards the sky. Can you see them? Do you watch the weeds of pumpkin and tomato breaking through the mulch to compete with the blue-flowered rosemary and purple daisy? Are you shaking your head and wondering when I will weed the bed I put in for you only a few months ago? Do you see me as I sit here, wearing your pyjamas until they are yellowed with grief and time?
The house grows dusty. Your cigarettes and lighter are where you left them. Your bed, your chair, your books, the little notes you wrote daily… all unchanged… as though they are waiting for your voice to animate them. Only you could give them life.
I have not washed your sheets and I asked the hospital for your clothes – that favourite dressing gown they cut from you here, trying to keep you living.
I called to you then. Told you everything would be alright. I placed my mouth on yours to breath my own life into you. My love into you. I felt your saliva mingle with my own. Warm and sweet. Mother’s milk.
I did not taste Death. But I felt it waiting. Close. In the air around your warm body. It had waited in the corners of the room for weeks. Patient and assured. You had seen it and warned me, but I would not speak of it. Though I felt its breath in your fear.
The jessemine will scent the garden with the sweetest air in the Spring. You loved to smell it, taking in long, deep breaths of its orange perfume and saying how lovely it was. Will you smell it, then, when its little buds crack open to this light and radiate into the garden? Will the perfume I have grown to love so much wound my senses like poison because you won’t be with me, here, on the verandah; making every day safe… telling me that you love me, that I am your little girl?
You were protection for me long after I grew tall and old enough to have no excuses. You were my sanction, the blessing on my life. You knew my secrets and accepted every aspect of the choices I have made. Some may never have understood your open-mindedness, your gentle acceptance of the life I chose to lead. But they do not know me as you knew me. They did not know you as I knew you. Their wounds will not have the same shape or depth as the wound of my grief. They will not lose as much blood.
Wisteria survives long after the frame on which it is stretched has rotted into the ground. Its branches are strong and able to support the weight of heavy purple blossoms. It thrives on the pruning of its limbs. In tribute to its frame it follows the line and form which gave it shape. Growing. Enhancing. Building itself into an object of beauty.
Did you think it would be the same for me?
It is strange how all these years of growing have resulted in this frozen child: broken and foetal from the winter of your absence. The elastic years snap me back to my beginnings and leave me helpless and vulnerable. No longer adult in a world stripped of you.
The full weight of the years to come press me to this chair. Crushing, black years. Perfume will be poured into these open wounds every Spring. Sharp orange and thorny rose. Winter’s hands will claw my throat and drag me yearly to this place and the sound of your silence. Night’s dark heart will beat the pulse of every hour your chair remains empty. I will rot with this wood and this cane as pumpkin vines fill the garden and tomatoes choke the daisies. I will dissolve into the patina of light upon the wall.
The papers have collected, unread, on the table. Testimony that the world has kept turning and days have passed. But not for me. I sit here, disconnected from the world, contained in my grief. The sun will go down in a few hours and I will go inside. Tomorrow I will take my place on the verandah... and wait.
siobhan colman 1995
published in 2Flaunt 2009
What you've just read is probably my most personal piece. For a long time after my mother died I couldn't write at all. And then, when i could, this found its way on to the page.
Response to the work of Milica Tomic I am Milica Tomic (1998-99) 2006 Biennale of Sydney
This work was commissioned by Blacktown Concil in 2006
1987
You fled from Serbia because there were men in the street who stood waiting for you. They spat at your shaved head and the thought that you did not want them. Your defiance at their machismo became a poison in their bellies and they shouted at you the acid of their intent each evening as you crossed the street to go home.
They did not understand rape, or a woman’s repugnance at being handled like meat on a butchers hook. That’s what women were designed for. But they understood that a lesbian would never coo at their advances, or laugh at jokes that were not funny, or fall into their beds and tell them how virile they were. Such a woman was an abomination and the laws which gave men the power to make wars and hit their wives vindicated their hatred.
And every evening their threats became stronger until they would corner you and push you into walls, taking liberties with your body before someone shouted at them to stop causing trouble. And they would step away and laugh while hot tears welled in your eyes and you fought to stop them falling, wrapping your arms around yourself to squeeze away the feel of their rough hands on your skin and clothing. The bruising on your back from brickwork.
Your parents lived upstairs. They would not talk about where you went or what you did though you tried many times to tell them. But they knew. Belgrade was a crowded city but the street outside your building ran like a village. No secrets were allowed and though indiscretions were tolerated, yours was not. Your parents loved you, but you knew they thought it would be better you were dead than living such a life. And they knew it would be only a matter of time before they buried you. They had heard the shouting in the streets though they closed their blinds to avoid seeing. You had brought it on yourself. They could not defend what they felt was wrong.
You too knew that it was only a matter of time.
You’d heard that in Sydney there was Mardi-Gras and a thriving community where you would be embraced and healed. Where there were cafes and nightclubs where you were welcome and did not have to come and go in secrecy. Where there would be men and women who would smile at your shaved head and suggest colours to enhance the regrowth. Where two men could hold each other’s hands in public without fear of arrest or death. Where you could see two women kiss on national television.
You arrived a refugee at a time when there was no razor wire at Villawood and the knowledge that your heart’s needs were enough to justify your arrival. A time when we were willing to inhale deeply on the air of global responsibility. A time before a moral emphysema.
You didn’t know that even here you were seven times more likely to be assaulted because you loved women, that the streets of Darlinghurst were patinaed with the blood of men caught holding other men’s hands, that girls as young as fourteen had been held prisoner by ministers bent on exercising their demons, that you would never be entitled to the same legal rights as women who love men, never be able to legally marry your beloved, never be able to adopt a child.
And in corners of this great city there are men … waiting.
Siobhan Colman June 2006.
Sweet Treats at the CWA
I blame Ethel Tweedy. She started it.
Not that Ethel realised. Oh no. There she was at the CWA Bake-Off swanning around all high and mighty examining everyone’s dumplings! No. Ethel wouldn’t have had a clue.
I’d been minding my own business. Something I like to do really, when this girl approached. New, fresh-faced, a glint of hunger in her eyes. I knew she’d seen my cup cakes and wanted a taste. And I have to admit, the thought of her tongue on my cherries excited me.
She was carrying something in a box. Holding it in front of her like a bouquet. “I’ve heard you’re the best there is!”
Now I’m used to compliments. It goes with the territory in the highly competitive climate of CWA cookery. And I’m used to winning. Normally I’d have answered with a superior smile and nod, but this young thing had me rattled. Perhaps she’d been sent over by Beryl Queenan in an effort to find out my secret recipe. Beryl had stooped low in the past (even plied me with her best cooking sherry!) but, like my famous chocolate soufflé, I held firm.
“Did Beryl send you?” I managed. The scent of sweet fruit was pulling my attention down to her mysterious container.
“No.” Her voice was like honey. “I’ve come for a taste.” It was only one small step, but suddenly she was close enough to whisper in my ear. “I’ve got something you want. You just don’t know it,” she leaned low over the table and I caught sight of plump ripe peaches. “But you will!”
Now I’m normally quite controlled. I’ve gazed at the most amazing puddings and smelled the aromas of apple and rhubarb, mulberry and mince pies, coconut slices, gem scones and fruit scones, marble-cake and pineapple sponge. And never wanted a sample. Not once.
But this girl had me trembling. I tried to take my eyes off her fruit, so full and juicy that my mouth began to water. What did she have in mind?
“I’m not into tarts.” I found myself saying, but I wasn’t so sure any more.
“Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.” And she reached out and held it, soft, warm and furry against my lips. “Smell it.” Her breath was in my ear and my head reeled. “Now taste!” and she pushed the sweet flesh into my mouth.
I don’t know when it happened. Perhaps it was when my head was buried in her box and I was devouring the delicious flavours to be found there. Or perhaps it was when I brought my head up, all wet, sticky and disoriented from the rich scent of juice.
But somehow she got her hands on my cup cakes.
She devoured them. Every one. And as she wiped the last traces of cream from her lips she leaned in and moaned softly.
“Once you’ve tried it, nothing will ever taste as good!”
I still blame Ethel Tweedy.
It’s her fault I’m into tarts.
siobhan colman 2008
This won the 2008 Mardi Gras Short Story Competition
I blame Ethel Tweedy. She started it.
Not that Ethel realised. Oh no. There she was at the CWA Bake-Off swanning around all high and mighty examining everyone’s dumplings! No. Ethel wouldn’t have had a clue.
I’d been minding my own business. Something I like to do really, when this girl approached. New, fresh-faced, a glint of hunger in her eyes. I knew she’d seen my cup cakes and wanted a taste. And I have to admit, the thought of her tongue on my cherries excited me.
She was carrying something in a box. Holding it in front of her like a bouquet. “I’ve heard you’re the best there is!”
Now I’m used to compliments. It goes with the territory in the highly competitive climate of CWA cookery. And I’m used to winning. Normally I’d have answered with a superior smile and nod, but this young thing had me rattled. Perhaps she’d been sent over by Beryl Queenan in an effort to find out my secret recipe. Beryl had stooped low in the past (even plied me with her best cooking sherry!) but, like my famous chocolate soufflé, I held firm.
“Did Beryl send you?” I managed. The scent of sweet fruit was pulling my attention down to her mysterious container.
“No.” Her voice was like honey. “I’ve come for a taste.” It was only one small step, but suddenly she was close enough to whisper in my ear. “I’ve got something you want. You just don’t know it,” she leaned low over the table and I caught sight of plump ripe peaches. “But you will!”
Now I’m normally quite controlled. I’ve gazed at the most amazing puddings and smelled the aromas of apple and rhubarb, mulberry and mince pies, coconut slices, gem scones and fruit scones, marble-cake and pineapple sponge. And never wanted a sample. Not once.
But this girl had me trembling. I tried to take my eyes off her fruit, so full and juicy that my mouth began to water. What did she have in mind?
“I’m not into tarts.” I found myself saying, but I wasn’t so sure any more.
“Don’t knock what you haven’t tried.” And she reached out and held it, soft, warm and furry against my lips. “Smell it.” Her breath was in my ear and my head reeled. “Now taste!” and she pushed the sweet flesh into my mouth.
I don’t know when it happened. Perhaps it was when my head was buried in her box and I was devouring the delicious flavours to be found there. Or perhaps it was when I brought my head up, all wet, sticky and disoriented from the rich scent of juice.
But somehow she got her hands on my cup cakes.
She devoured them. Every one. And as she wiped the last traces of cream from her lips she leaned in and moaned softly.
“Once you’ve tried it, nothing will ever taste as good!”
I still blame Ethel Tweedy.
It’s her fault I’m into tarts.
siobhan colman 2008
This won the 2008 Mardi Gras Short Story Competition
