Columns from The Weekend West

Ros Thomas 16/05/2015 Ros Thomas 16/05/2015

Older and Wiser

I spot a friend’s elderly father sitting outside the cafe with his coffee. A brisk north-easterly has turned Kirwin Street into a wind tunnel. A gust flaps his newspaper and whips a flurry of dry leaves under his table but he’s unperturbed.

“Edward!” I say. “It’s freezing out here. Come inside and have your coffee with me.”

He hoists himself up to kiss my cheek. We move inside to a table by the wall. Edward, dapper in a navy sportscoat and crisp shirt, sweeps one hand across his glabrous head, flattening a few token wisps to his pate.

“How are you?” I say. It seems an obvious question to ask an 87-year-old.

Ros Thomas 09/05/2015 Ros Thomas 09/05/2015

Going Up

The traffic lights at Labouchere Road flipped to orange and I slammed on the anchors. The car in front sped across the intersection. In the distance I could see cars choking the freeway on-ramp.

“This could take a while,” I said to my three noise-makers in the back, but they were busy singing out of tune to the radio.

Up ahead, I spotted the block of flats I lived in as a four-year-old. I flipped up my sunvisor and counted up four floors to single out the two bedroom apartment Mum rented us after her divorce.

Ros Thomas 02/05/2015 Ros Thomas 02/05/2015

Not Just a Number

The train doors hissed open. I stepped aboard and sat on an empty bench as we glided out of the station.

Opposite me, a decrepit old fellow was sprawled on the carriage floor, sorting his stash of grimy shopping bags. A long bulbous nose gave him an air of Jimmy Durante, minus the felt homburg. His long beard was a tangle of white wisps. A red-checked parka and black tracksuit pants, the knees peppered with holes, did little to pad his raw-boned frame. The soles of his black sneakers had worn down to reveal threadbare socks and a glimpse of grubby feet. He gave me a sly glance with one bloodshot eye.

With arthritic fingers, he peeled open a plastic pocket and slid a collection of small sugar packets into one hand. I watched, fascinated, as he laid them end-to-end, domino style. With a grunt, he swept up the sugar packets and lined them up like soldiers instead. Satisfied, he reached for another plastic sleeve.

Ros Thomas 25/04/2015 Ros Thomas 25/04/2015

Leap of Faith

Fear pricked the soles of my feet. The Griffin road bridge over the Collie River was so high I could feel the adrenalin flooding my gut. My legs felt wobbly. I tried to ignore the pounding in my ears. My brain scrambled to process three converging phobias: my fear of heights, fear of falling and fear of drowning.

Five metres beneath me, the dark water swirled in murky green currents. I perched on the rusty water pipe slung beneath the bridge, my left hand a row of white-knuckles gripping the guard rail behind me. Could I jump?

“C’mon Mum” shouted a voice from the pebbly beach.

Ros Thomas 18/04/2015 Ros Thomas 18/04/2015

Battle Lines

I am no longer the coolly self-possessed mistress of my kitchen. The ants I tried to befriend at Christmas have become zealots. I practice my domestic sciences in an atmosphere of fear and ambuscades. A bagel crumb left languishing beside the toaster becomes besieged within hours. With military precision, the ants blockade the west bank of my benchtop. Each day they emerge from a different crack. Despite my obsessive cleaning, I am under renewed siege.

At 6am, newly awake, I steel myself for what awaits me in the kitchen. I pad noiselessly across the cork floor and cast a bleary eye towards the sink. No ants. A small thud of relief. I reach for a teabag from Mr Twining. The red box remains pleasingly inviolate. I wait for the kettle to regain consciousness while I split a Hot Cross Bun and jam the halves into the toaster. I reach for the butter cloche and lift the lid.

Ros Thomas 11/04/2015 Ros Thomas 11/04/2015

Cuts Both Ways

I glide around the shop display, high on the heady scent of perfumed candles.

“Would you like to sample our skin creams?” purrs the willowy shopgirl. She hands me a luxury Popsicle stick. With it, I scoop out a polite portion of Kashmir Petal lotion and knead my hands until I smell like a marshmallow. I admire her little amber pots arranged in careful rows along the counter and marvel at her equally decadent prices.

Into the shop walks a woman my age with a familiar face. I can’t place her but I know we’re acquainted somehow. Perhaps we have friends in common? I acknowledge her with a smile and say ‘Hi!’.

Ros Thomas 04/04/2015 Ros Thomas 04/04/2015

A Line to the Past

Kulin seems deserted this Sunday morning. The town’s womenfolk are sleeping-in after last night’s dinner dance. The kids on bikes yesterday must be watching TV. Two brown honeyeaters pirouette noisily overhead. They bank sharply before alighting unsteadily on a power line. Theirs is the only movement on Stewart Street.

My newly five-year-old daughter, keen to explore, kicks up a shower of red pebbles from the gravel footpath. We wander past a derelict shop. In the window is a faded sepia photograph of a swarthy bloke wearing a mug-shot smirk. His white shirt-sleeves are rolled up above his elbows, business-like. My pint-sized companion is captivated by his eyebrows, which sit on his jutting forehead like two hairy caterpillars. I read the caption:

Ros Thomas 28/03/2015 Ros Thomas 28/03/2015

Above Bored

The ticketing machine coughed and spat a small paper chit into my hand. A64 it read. I surveyed the crowded foyer. A dozen bodies already occupied the grid of public seating.

I sighed, knowing the next half hour of my life would be confined here, waiting to renew my car registration. A woman’s sultry voice spoke through the intercom: “Ticket A51 to Counter three” I silently cursed her for making the Department of Transport sound seductive.

I sat down next to a well-upholstered woman playing Solitaire on her mobile, wishing I hadn’t left my smartphone in the glove box. Closing my eyes, I tuned into the drowsy hum of office machinery. A ceiling fan pattered lazily overhead. Even now and then, the rustling of documents was punctuated by the ka-chunk of a stapler. Sexy intercom-woman called her next customer: “Ticket A52 to Counter one.” I hadn’t been this bored in ages.

Ros Thomas 21/03/2015 Ros Thomas 21/03/2015

Verge of Excess

I can feel summer losing its sting. The leaves on the plane trees are curling into autumn, their edges fringed a coppery brown. At 6am, there is dew cooling my bike seat. Best of all, the new season triggers our council’s bulk rubbish collection.

Mounds of gubbins have arisen on verges. Outside No. 56, a black Weber kettle from last century is crippled on the grass. Now a lidless bipod, its rusty innards are exposed. A clothes horse, plastic arms peeling, leans against a tree. Teetering on the kerb outside No. 64 is a bar fridge, door half-hinged, seals shredded. The wind blows it open just as a cyclist hurtles down our hill. He jerks away from the kerb as the door swings at his shins. That’s when I notice three frayed fly swats in primary colours propped in a chipped white vase, a local’s Mondrian homage to dead blowflies.

Ros Thomas 14/03/2015 Ros Thomas 14/03/2015

Virtual Reality

The train doors hissed apart. My youngsters scampered inside the near empty carriage, debating the merits of north-facing window over south. They scooted towards the driver’s door and clambered onto the bench under the largest expanse of window, a foot apart, each claiming the winning view. Babbling to each another, they pressed their noses to the glass as the train glided out of the station.

Teenage son and I sat down beside them. I assessed the couple opposite – a well-preserved grandma in a floppy felt hat and her pint-sized companion, a boy about the same age as my four-year-old daughter. He was sitting quietly, his thonged feet dangling, head bowed, transfixed by the iPad in his lap. Every few moments, he’d jolt into action, little thumbs swiping frantically at the screen, a chorus of bubbles noises accompanying his efforts.