43 AD
Southern Britain

Colin October 2010

I got up early on the morning of July 12th; about 4.15, much as I had on most mornings for the past month. It was the World Cup Final between Holland and Spain. As a football fanatic I was excited. This was the last of the 64 matches in this year's tournament, held every four years; this year in South Africa. True, the final was not the best of the games, but for me there's excitement in most games, even those played by school kids. And of course I recorded the result of every game played.

My interest in this truly world game - it's played in every country - started in primary school; I played for all my school and college teams. At 10 I spent most Saturday afternoons kicking a ball around in the local park and many hours practising after school. This is where I honed my skills learning to shoot, dribble, tackle, trap and all the goal keeping skills. One day I scored a goal from the halfway line. I had a kick like a mule!

By age 13 I pledged my allegiance to the Arsenal club in north London, in the English Premier League. The team had its origins at the munitions factory in Woolwich, hence the Arsenal, nicknamed the 'Gunners' where both my grandfather and great grandfather had worked, but I didn't discover this till later. So on many a Saturday afternoon I found my way to the ground to stand on the terraces, sometimes shivering in winter, swaying with the crowd. Even today I still check their results first. My major disappointment is that in this era of multi-national player teams there are hardly any English players at Arsenal - most of them are French!

People ask why I get so excited about teams kicking a ball around. It's not for the ridiculous salaries professionals earn. It's the recognition of the incredible levels of skill required to control the ball and when you've played you understand this better. It's also the beauty of the pattern work which good teams exhibit. There's a skilful aesthetic at work which satisfies my soul.

The wedding was a disaster. I always knew it would be and I said so.
Alice was too young. I was not the only one who thought she was immature and needed to learn more about the world. And Pat! Or Patsie as she called him in her babyish way was, quite frankly, a twit. He couldn't hold a job; lacked intelligence; had a foghorn of a voice; complained long and loud about anything and everyone; yet thought he was the hunk a girl was waiting for. And Alice fell for everything he wasn't as well as what he was. Maybe no one had ever shown much interest in her before he came along. He probably thought she'd do anything he commanded. But in no time they told everyone they intended to marry. Not even a trial run seemed to be on the cards. Someone said they should put a notice in the paper. Can you believe:
Patsie and Alice are to be wed on January 28th
on the Fair View river bank. 3pm. All welcome.

"What sort of a wedding party will that be?" I said to her mother. "She's no saint, is she? It'll be a disaster. I mean, how are you going to cater for an unknown number of hangers on? You'll have every tom and dick there, just for the grog if word gets around. And it will."
"Oh, I expect we'll just go round to Macdonalds when it's over," she said.
"And what plans has she made for the ceremony?" I asked. "You have to have a celebrant. Has she got one?"
"No, not yet. I think she's expecting Patsie to arrange that."
"He's thick as a brick," I said. "He won't have any idea. He only knows about drink. And what's she going to wear?"
"I thought she could use mine. It's only been worn once."
"You're joking, aren't you? She is a size 22, or haven't you noticed lately."
I thought George and I would give the wedding a miss. I could see it would be a real embarrassment to everyone. But George said that since we were long-standing friends it would be wrong not to appear. And whatever we thought now, the younger generation did things differently and perhaps we were a bit medieval in our thinking. I said that even in the Middle Ages they had to do some planning for weddings and that hadn't changed, had it?
Come the day and it was raining. Great start. I said to George: "What d'you think they'll do now?"
"We'd better take an umbrella," he said.
It rained all morning. When we got down to the river the water was lapping up and over the grass. Alice was already there; quite unperturbed. I'll give her credit for determination. Under a multi-coloured parasol, which her mother was holding in a vain attempt to shield her from the heaviest raindrops, Alice stood, clutching a bunch of garden flowers and looking excited. She'd found the full length peach-coloured pseudo ball gown she'd worn to her Leavers' Party several years before. But she'd put weight on since then and it showed. The steady rain was splashing around her feet and the dress was starting to look as if it was getting the measles. Rapidly. A few of the family had braved the rain and stood nearby huddling under not-enough umbrellas.
George and I and others kept our distance under a nearby gum tree. No sign of Pat. We waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The officiating minister looked at his watch and shuffled the papers tucked into his book. Two more minutes.
And then he arrived. A revved up Holden charged through the mist and rain, screeched to a halt in a flurry of spray and Pat got out. Fell out would be a more apt description. Five others untidily followed. For the most important day so far in his 22 years Pat had chosen a long black tee shirt with some words on the chest which are not repeatable here and jeans with holes in the knees which he was wearing the first time I saw him six months before. He lost his footing on the wet grass and the jeans were baptised by full immersion.
Alice screeched with girlish giggles; there were guffaws, sighs and ohs. Pat picked himself up rubbed muddy hands down his thighs, looked through the rain at the company and boomed: "Great way to arrive, eh? How are yer everybody. Sorry we're late. Think the clock behind the bar must have been slow or summat." His mates stood rather sheepishly in a huddle near the car.
The celebrant, seizing the moment, holding his umbrella in one hand and book in the other said in a strong Irish accent, "Yes, well, let's begin shall we?"
Now if I'd been Alice's father , I would have called the whole thing off then and there. But he didn't. Alice seemed excited about what she clearly didn't understand she was letting herself drop into. Pat had no idea at all; probably thought he was acting a part in a school play. They repeated the vows. Then the celebrant asked for the ring. Pat put his hand in his wet jeans pocket and pulled it out again. Plunged the left hand in on the other side. Nothing there either. He turned towards the car.
"Hey, Charlie, look for the ring will ya. I must have dropped it when I slipped over."
The five of them searched frantically. "Found it." It was Pete, another of his best mates. "It's a bit muddy."
"Never mind. Give it 'ere." Pat took the narrow band of metal, obviously the cheapest he'd been able to find, turned towards Alice and attempted to push it on her finger.
"Ooh," she squealed, "be careful will you. It's muddy and it won't fit!"
"Never mind," said the Irishman. "We'll just imagine it's on. And now I declare you man and wife."
The rain was now coming down in torrents. Alice escaped from her mother's protective brolly and clinging on to Pat sloshed through the saturated muddy grass towards the car. But she didn't make it. His strides were bigger than hers and in her attempt to keep up with him and to keep hold of his hand she lost any foothold she had. The grass did the rest. Her belly dive was beautiful to behold.
"Come on," I said to George. "We're going home."

(A short story written to include the names (red) of all the horses in the Melbourne Cup)

The Associate Professor of Arabic and Middle Eastern Studies at Cambridge was on summer vacation. Most years he returned to his boyhood hunting ground - Galleons Reach, just south of Cork in southern Ireland where the fishing was still good and the colleens always pretty and engaging. Seamus O'Reilly, now in his early forties, was enjoying the quiet and solitary life after yet another hectic college year. This year he'd been elevated to Master and the students now deferentially called him Master O'Reilly. The phone rang. "Sufferin' serpents, can't they leave a man when he's on holiday. Hallo. O'Reilly speaking."
"Excuse me, Sir. Hope you're enjoying your holiday." It was the cheery voice of his secretary, Daf. (Her parents had misguidedly named her Daffodil.) "Sorry to bother you but there's a message just come in from Abu Dhabi. Seems the French "dig" out there has come across something very unusual. They wondered if you'd like to go out and help the investigation."
"Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn't. I am on holiday you know and the fishing's good. OK, give me the details."

The jumbo landed smoothly; a fierce hot wind surrounded O'Reilly as he walked from the plane. He'd met the leader of the French expedition before. He was waiting for him. Henri Zavite was a short avuncular man; a jovial, middle-aged character. O'Reilly observed that despite the heat he was still wearing his favourite Harris Tweed jacket patched at the elbows. He'd never seen him in anything else. Reminds me of Hercule Poirot he mused.

"Ah, Henri. How are you? Thanks for meeting me."
" 'Allo, 'allo, Seamus. I 'ave lots to do. Zis dig is taking all my time, n'est pas." They walked to the car. "You see we 'ave found some bodies. It is very unusual you know."
They drove to the hotel, enjoyed dinner, then settled in the lounge. O'Reilly was feeling more relaxed after the long flight. He checked the wine list. "Ah, they've got some Fiumicino. It's a new port wine from Italy. It's been on the shelf at home for a while now. Fiumicino's in Italy,
did you know. Means "little river". Good name for a wine, eh? It's very good. You should try some. Much better than this alcopop rubbish the kids are into."
Henri Zavite continued his story. "We 'ave been digging 'ere for five summers now. It's a palace site: Late Bronze and last week we came across zis burial chamber, long and narrow. It seems no one knew about it."

Next morning they drove across the burning yellow desert sand to the site. The dig was scattered over a large area. Zavite said, "It is a very strange thing. It looks like a massacre occurred 'ere. My assistant, Maurice, called me, 'Hurry Henri. Allez! Wonder! What's 'ere?' I just spin around so quickly and I am so astonished. It was 'orrible. C'est la guerre, I say. What 'as 'appened 'ere? It is like nothing I 'ave ever seen. So quickly I pull out my trusty little Leica camera for the pictures and Leica, ding! Ding! Ding! It is like a crime scene; the bodies 'ave been ritually dismembered and they are all women. You see these two with legs and arms in strange positions. Maybe they were princesses or harem girls and they appear to 'ave been named. We 'ave found these small steles nearby with names: Ista Kareem, Munsef: royal-sounding names and there's another one over there. It's not very clear but could be Mourilyan. You are the expert Seamus. What do you think?"
O'Reilly bent over the skeletons, then turned to one of the local Arabs and said: "Please, lend me your cape. Cover the bones. I'll need to examine them again." Standing up he said, "An Arabian sheikh lived in this area somewhere about 1750 BCE. The best translation of his name would be Basaltico. He was a big wig. Very sadistic by all accounts and held life pretty cheap. Rather like Claudius, you remember, the Roman Emperor. Derek Jacobi played him in the movie.
"What I see here Henri is exactly what I would have expected. Gruesome, shocking yes, but not when viewedfrom the perspective of the times they lived in. I'm a bit surprised there aren't more. Perhaps you'll find some. And by the way let me know if you find the remains of any horses. This fellow was well known for his chariot racing. I'll be away now Henri. Promised my sister in Australia I'd come on over to her since I'm already half way round the world."
"Where does she live?" asked Zavite.
"Oh, a little place near Sydney. Warringah. She says it's a little kibbutz. Her husband's Jewish. Should add another dimension to my Middle Eastern studies. Enjoy your discoveries Henri."

White wave tops crashing;
incessantly powerful;
attacking the beach.

Outside my window
magpies warble all day long;
black and white humour.

Fluffy cumulus
riding a heavenly sky;
white woolly bundles.

Flowers in vases,
pretty, scented and bunch-like
but better unpicked.

I washed the windows in the morning: it rained in the afternoon: it usually does!

But this time the rain did not stop. It pattered down, drumming on tin roofs, became heavier as evening darkened into night; hammered against old brick walls, streaming away in gleaming rivulets across asphalt drives, quickly pouring into already overflowing gutters; swirlingly is carried into overfull creeks where it cascades in silver ribbons onto nearby waterlogged paddocks. Slowly, by imperceptible degrees, the water rises and spreads in broad swathes across the flatness.

For days, the rain continues to fall from grey leaden skies: sometimes drizzle, occasionally showers, more often torrents: long straight lines of teeming rain. Everything lies saturated; pools become ponds, the ponds lakes; the lakes, rivers. Brown banjo frogs bongo with delight; mallards rampantly water ski; black swans drop in and glide nostalgically; gumboots and waders shake off the dust of long hibernation. There will be new freshness, growth . . . and more rain!

The inevitable tide
creeps closer
obliterating
his last words:
IT WAS NOT ME

His last words
clawed disfiguratively
in soft sinking sand
on this desolate beach:
deeply disturbing, distressing.
Defiant!

Angry surf rolls relentlessly,
foaming white-flecked wave tops,
deep thundering water.

His body, hurled in a heap:
heaving, breathless, exhausted, pained;
fingers scratching for justice:
“not me, not me”.

A receding brig – away in the distance –
piratical memories:
brawls, scuffles, fights;
enemies still unforgotten;
violence, lashings and masterly greed;
drunken fights in the darkness;
death, bloodied and cheap.

A scapegoat, not missed,
tipped over the stern:
innocent victim, unable to swim
rolls in with the tide:
to survive?
Perhaps there is hope,
perhaps
perhaps
perhaps . . . .

"Good morning. Can I help you? From the newspaper? What we thought of the race? Which one? Ah, the Tuesday one. Bit of a picnic, wasn't it?

"Well, some of us here at Randy Wick are not at all sure what the fuss is all about. The Tuesday race isn't much different from the others really. We always go out there and run along the best we can. The oats in the bucket's always the same at the end. So what's so special about the three o'clock?

"Anyway, now you're here I'll walk you along to meet the fillies and the nags. This is Freddie. He had Mister Excitable on his back on Tuesday, the guy with the orange and red quarters, the one who always expects to win.

"This here is Shirley."

"Hallo, call me Shirl. Oh yes, I had Tight Knees, him in the candy pink stripes. Lovely boy. I think we went wonderfully well, don't you?"

"G'day, I'm Max. I carried Aggressive Idiot; he's a shocker. Wears all black with the white skull in the front. He just didn't want to stay on so I bucked him off in the end."

"This is Bert. He flew in from Ireland specially for the race."

"Yes, well, Heavy Cursor, as his name suggests, swears all the way round. The black and red stars would have told you that. Not much of a rider really."

"I'm Bobby. Of course if you get Gentle Hands - he wears the soft pastel green with white sleeves - you know you're in for a good ride, but I think he kept us too close to the rails. I need lots of space. How about you?"

"Good day, my man. The race? Well, I don't think the track here's as good as our English ones. And I really have to say that it's a bit unfortunate if you get landed with Bottoms Up in the blue and purple halves although I thought he held up well really. He's a bit heavier than some I've carried."

"And the last one who's still here today is Jill."

"I think I went terrifically well considering I had Weighs Heavy - he wears all scarlet. I would've done better without him."

"Now before you go. They don't seem to realise that as horses we run better without weights on our backs. We're faster on our own and much more cooperative. If we'd been allowed we could easily have arranged between ourselves to all cross the finish line together. We'd all win and we'd all get a prize. Seems obvious to most of us. Actually, at a recent stable meeting we discussed a plan for all of us to stop running half way down the final straight and just WALK the last 100 metres or so. A sort of egalitarian equine equality union thing, y'know. Thanks for coming."

Rising on wings polished by the morning sun,
The harrier, with long bronzed feathers, glides lazily,
Circles, soars, floats; its downcast eyes riveted,
Searching for stray movements among swaying reeds
In the watery fingers of wetland below;
Betrayed by the wind, a bandicoot scurries;
And the harrier drops!

Six tiny ducklings are mothered and safe;
Fluffy brown balls, bobbing quietly along;
But the water is dropping, the rain's not come;
The harrier's watching and hovers above;
There's a dog on the path only metres away.
Will they learn to survive and grow to be strong?
Are they destined to die?

Three long-legged herons, tall flying brooms;
Slowly, the trio flop down with a splash,
Stand, and reflect in this watery grave;
Ankle-deep shallows are not deep enough;
Crumbling brown banks lie broken and cracked;
Heavenly once, but the future's not here
If the water dries up.

The rain doesn't fall, the creek's nearly dry;
Bones on the bank lie bleached and disjointed;
The herons have gone and frogs stopped croaking;
The ducklings have flown - the two that survived;
The wetland's not wet, just earthy and bare;
The sun and the summer drag oppressively on;
But the harrier's still there!

Daisy! How beautiful in the morning:
You awoke, shone and opened up to greet
Us in the early hours, before dawning;
A miracle for everyone to meet.
With love we welcome you, bundle of joy,
And laughing, happy smiles, thoughts from the heart;
The happiest words we've tried to employ.
Waking from cosy slumbers - now apart -
Your searching eyes are watching our faces
Quietly wondering who we are and why
So many cuddles and embraces;
But you respond with murmurs soft - and sigh.
How great the joy you've brought for us to share;
Your life will flower, Daisy, everywhere.