The Train Traveller

The early morning chill reached inside my coat, I shivered as the train approached. It was still winter and dark; but spring was on its way you could feel it. I always looked forward to my trips to work on the train. After many months of smiling at regular commuters we were now talking and had created a little social club. Conversation gradually developed. It started with a nod for a few mornings then a “hello” then a comment on the weather, always a good talking point in Melbourne, or the news, to the delays on the trains. Slowly other more personal topics of conversation emerged.

One traveller was a rugged man in his fifties. He always had a beanie on his shaved head and wore jeans, strong boots and a coat, the sleeves of which were just short enough to reveal faint lines of tattoos on both arms. He carried a back-pack and always looked clean, warm and friendly. After the nodding and hello we talked about a few topics of mutual interest.

A couple of times we caught the same train home and we chatted again. He liked to shock people. I would get on at the stop before him and as I got into the carriage he would greet me by throwing small bits of rolled up paper at me. One day he was unable to find a seat and deliberately jostled me with his bag as I got on, and then loudly announced to the world at large how sorry he was to upset this lovely lady, and then made one of the other passengers get up and give me their seat.

Another day he noticed that my collar was askew as we arrived at our destination; he adjusted it for me. My daughter who picked me up from the station that night, wanted to know who he was and why he was ‘interfering’ with her mother.

We laughed at the train system, the political standards of the day and events in the past we both remembered. One day he wasn't on the train and I haven't seen him since.

Writing?

As I sit here contemplating what to #write, I wonder on the value of authors, people and the world in general. I enjoy reading, fiction and non-fiction and often consider the lives of the authors and the impetus that prompted them to write. 

My inclination to write comes from a desire to make a difference in the world, to add some thoughts that may come from a different perspective or give the reader food for thought.

I hear you sigh, thinking "here we go with another long winded life story, telling me nothing of interest to my life". 

Well I can relate historical facts, tell witty stories or just pretend that I am talking to a long lost friend for the length of this missal. I prefer to think the latter.

Conversation with Joseph, my Protagonist.

Conversation with Joseph

Me: What is bothering you?

Joseph:  You have made me the main protagonist, this is supposed to be about the development of the other characters, how they grow from the experiences that take place.

Me: Who is telling the story?

Joseph: Narrator, or each person whose journey improves their character. The point of view has to come from each character. Divide the story into parts, make a chapter from each person’s point of view. You have 3 countries, Kings or whatever in each, people who belong in each country, things going on in each country.

Me: what about the quest?

Joseph what will it achieve if we join the three parts of the crown together? Utopia?

Me: that was the general idea. That is what you want isn't it? A place where everyone helps each other, works for the common good?

Joseph: how realistic is that?

Me: there has to be a reason for the story and the quest.

Joseph: it is the struggle that makes the story, not the outcome.

Me: OK so have you not had enough struggles yet?

Joseph: you have created a whole world, different from any here on earth, magic exists, flying Pygmies, for heavens sake, use them all, create wars, histories, heroes, have struggles with what makes each of them tick. Find depth to the characters.

Me: I feel there are too many characters already, Gilward and Traiken for example, they could be dropped.

Joseph: they are fighting men, they need to have a goal apart from finding the crown. Traiken for example has never been injured in battle, until Barados. How does he feel about that? Where is his story? Gilward, he has been a master fighter all his long life, what is his story? Your characters lack depth.

Me: it is you that I am trying to portray as the main character, what you have achieved, 300 years you have been meddling in things, saving people, flashing in and out of peoples lives.

Joseph: you can have me as the binding, joining all the worlds together, show that people all have the same goals, hopes, fears, loves, make them real people not just words coming off the page. Hold them all to account, show their failings and their strengths. Have them do things out of the ordinary.

Me: I have written 175,000 words before editing anything. Now you are telling me that it is all a waste.

Joseph: No it needs more depth, you can get that in the editing and will probably find another 150,000 words just developing the characters.

Me: OK so where do you see yourself?

Joseph: as the common factor in everyone’s life. The one thing that everyone needs, a guiding voice, someone to tell you when you are right and when you are wrong. An answer to questions when all seems lost. Magic is my thing, I can make things happen, I can soften a blow, I can move people through time and place, I can produce things from nowhere, I am the force behind your story, but it is not about me. Stop trying to analyse me and work on the other characters. Make stories about them, get inside their heads, each one of them as soon as they appear, tell their story, not long winded things but short interesting things, what makes them tick. Why are they where they are right now? Not how did they get there in a convoluted story line.

Me: So with what I have written so far, who are the most important characters to you?

Joseph: Josemine, for one. Gruffedd for another. Jastron is wishy washy he needs a lot of work. Paul needs work. You wanted Traiken to fall in love with Josemine and then made her reject him in the tunnel. There is no connection with your characters to each other. They need to establish friendships and bonds, they need to hate, like, fear, just plain get to know each other.

Me: how can you do that with a plot running through the whole thing, things have to keep happening. There has to be conflict in each scene, something exciting happening all the time. Action. Make it interesting, keep it moving. If I am going to keep stopping to get to know people and have them pals with each other what will happen to the action?

Joseph: Don’t stop, use conversation to tell people what they are feeling “I’ve got your back” watch the guy on your left” “give me your hand, we’ll run over there” he grabbed her hand and fled to the hill, in desperation she grabbed his hand and he lifted her over his shoulder as he ran, I don’t know you are the writer, no adverbs not adjectives just write what they are feeling at the time. Really feeling.

Me: OK so what other characters do you like?

Joseph: Zeric, he is not evil enough, mad enough. Who was the boy who found him in the bath, me? Build that up, build tension, find spite, hatred. Roustos, he had thoughts, we heard his thoughts, not enough of why he was so obsessed with his church, there are no ‘whys’ in your story. Torz is one of my favourites too, is he going to betray us all, or is he really on the goodies side. Barados is just a puppet and should be treated as such, but the people he manipulated should be more real. Gregor the Great is a blustery old fellow, why is he leading the Swayas? The Assanth, we have heard a lot about meeting him, what is he like, an angry man, a kind ruler, does Paul like him, does he respect him? Does he want me to like him? will he help us find the first part of the crown?

My Granddaughter

I marvelled at the little sleeping face, so troubled before my story. The hand lost in mine was now relaxed as she dreamed of the fairy coaches drawn by magical dragon flies.

The weight of the world had been on her mind. So young to be asking why a man would beat his wife and then turn on his children; why some people die in an earthquake and some survive through sheer miracles. She has not been a beaten child, rather the opposite; but the effect on her is the same as if she had. She plays music to soothe the world and is hurt when yet another disaster or tragedy takes place. As she grows so does her passion for her music; it becomes her solace. Like a tiny seed she stretches out her roots for sustenance and her place in the world; her leaves are tempted out of their casing to explore and the flower is forming to blossom all too soon for me - but not for her.   

On Private School Education

Yes, we were privileged. We had great places to go in the holidays and some weekends. There was always an end in sight, relief from the drudgery, excursions to go on, activities at school, musical choral evenings, prayer meetings, church. My education flourished in areas other than academic.

In retrospect, I am amazed that parents from such wealthy and luxurious background put their children into such institutions. It is designed to teach great lessons for them to carry forth into life. Austerity, servitude and humility may indeed be valuable tools to carry forth but stark conditions, bulky food and suppression of the spirit can be supplied to children by many institutions, but these parents do so by choice and pay top fees for it and expect gratitude for the sentence. 

April

April

Why the three of them were wandering the streets and not at home she could not recall. April was aged 5 and Ellen her older sister aged 8. George their baby brother was aged 2. They were walking down the cobblestone street towards the market stalls when Ellen shoved George into April's arms and told her to 'make herself scarce'. When April returned she saw Ellen grab several pieces of fruit from the fruit stall; she then threw them into the large front pocket of April's apron and told her to take George and run and hide.

April always did as she was told; George was heavy as she tried to carry him and the pocket full of stolen fruit. She didn't know where to hide so she just kept moving along the street as fast as she could. She managed to hide for a few minutes under a fallen awning in a side street; but then the lady with the straw broom whacked her with the handle and told her to hurry along. As she turned the corner looking for another hiding place a policeman grabbed her. She struggled and squirmed but he had her firmly by the hair; with his other hand he wrenched George out of her grip and tucked him under his arm like a newspaper.

The black 'paddy wagon' arrived at the curb. Another policeman took George and hurled him in the back, April was tossed in next, the doors were locked. Out of the dark April heard a string of obscenities and then Ellen yelled at her “Why didn't you hide – dummy?” April looked around her, now that her eyes had become accustomed to the dim light she could see two benches ran down the sides , Ellen was sitting on one of the seats nursing a bruise developing on her left cheek. Tears had washed some of the dirt into swirls on her face. April opened her mouth to reply but received a slap on her face and decided against it. Ellen, when angry was not easy to deal with. George tried to cuddle up to Ellen but she pushed him back to April “Keep him quiet” she hissed “see if you can do that right”

“George is always quiet” April thought as she looked at him and put her arms around him to stop him crying. The van started up and moved slowly down the cobble stoned street. It came to a stop outside the police station and both policemen went inside leaving them in the hot and stinking van.

* * * * *

April had not been given any education or opportunities in the “Girls Home” of the 1930's. Any dreams she may have had died with her 2 year old brother. She was not encouraged to do anything with her life other than clean other peoples houses and have children – seven of them in all. Now, 40 years on, she waited, excited and nervous; this was a special visitor.