COMMUNITY

HOW MANY MILES TO BABYLON ?
THREE-SCORE AND TEN
CAN I GET THERE BY CANDLELIGHT
YES AND BACK AGAIN . . . . . (TRADITIONAL)

You know that somewhere is a really bad place to live when the local council designates it as “the gateway to . . “ or that the estate agents tell you it’s “only half an hour from. . .” , and anyway the air is very clean. When I moved to the valley it wasn’t for the clean air or to go through a gateway to anywhere else. Instead, in my romantic way I was looking for a piece of the past, a safe community just like in my grandmother’s day. I’m not saying that the thought of being able to live somewhere where you could fish in the states best trout streams any evening after work without having to travel wasn’t attractive, just that it wasn’t the deciding factor. Ok the Valley is very nice, vineyards, tourist spots and the like but I couldn’t afford to live the good life of the country gentleman.
At first my house shared a driveway with a man who would walk round the garden with a gun, usually in carpet slippers and an old blue dressing gown. Presumably he’d just jumped out of the bath, yelled “Eureka!” and decided to shoot something; maybe me. The only conversations I ever shared with him were when he told me not to park near the gate because he’d parked there for thirty years. He said my strange car there would scare his pitbulls. His argument was as well rounded as the barrels of his shotgun, yet surprisingly persuasive. The other time was when one day I made the mistake of approaching him and saying, “Hi.” He moved his face towards mine, so that his eyes were less than a foot from away and explained in a voice that would have done Hannibal Lector proud,” If I wanted to speak to my neighbours I would live in Collingwood.”
Above his doorway stood a sign, “Beautiful People Welcome.” He was no doubt disappointed that we’d brought the house instead of Posh and Becks.
Now he’s moved, surprisingly to Collingwood, to be nearer his hospital. I’ve since learned that he’s a well-respected surgeon. The house sits empty. Beside it a brand new Tudor cottage has been erected. Complete with oak beams and basketball ring. I don’t really know the people who live there, their twin Commodores are never in the drive long enough. He’s called Ron and she’s called something Italian, like Gelatti. To them community is the view through the windscreen when you’re almost home.
The streets retired residents don’t share their views. Mrs Kaye from the corner is always happy to say hello, especially since we’ve got the puppies. She regularly stops the kids and offers a bone for the dogs. What did she used to do with all these bones? I suppose in the past she manufactured her own adhesives. Jack, our other retiree similarly loves to stop for a chat. Well I say a chat really he’s just passing on his experience to slow down any project. “You’ve planted those beans too close together, and they’ll need a taller stake than that, I’ve got some bamboo in the shed…” I’ve got some bamboo in my shed too, only mine’s been signed “Heddon” and cost a couple of hundred bucks, as pretty little fly rod as you’d ever like to cast. To be totally honest I wasn’t planting the beans to grow and feed the family anyway, it was just an exercise in earning brownie points with Vicky so that when I hear that they are biting I’ll be able to go without a fuss.
On the other side of my house live the lesbians, whose coffee is as decaffeinated as their conversation. Venus, which is her spiritual name, used to be a social worker until she inherited from an elderly aunt. I often ponder how lucky she was to wake up one morning and know that her spirit was called something as beautiful as Venus. Imagine if it had been called Verruca. Venus and her partner Penni, emphasis on the I, met back in the days when Penni was stealing cars. These cars she readily explains were late 70’s model because “they’re easier to repair.” She tells this in a way that makes you feel stupid if you asked why she would steal broken cars. Surely cars that didn’t need repairing would be easier for the get away. Perhaps that’s why she got caught; you can’t go that fast pushing a Kingswood uphill.
Then last week something happened. We were woken in the night by the fire siren. Suddenly Ron was on top of his roof with a hose, he later admitted that he didn’t know why but he’s seen someone do it on the news. Jack, who used to be in the CFA, was knocking on doors telling people not to panic he’d got a radio scanner. When I answered the door dressed in my old red bath robe (clearly embroidered “Crown Towers Hotel” just like one would if it had been stolen after a business conference) he explained the fire was only a little one, and it was kilometres away down by Lysterfield, but was checking that we know where the fire safety areas were if we needed them. He was particularly concerned about the “sisters” next door. I don’t think he’s quite got the hang of Venus and Penni’s relationship. My wife got the kids up and they had a midnight snack while they got dressed and packed up their “special things bag.” These are the few personal items that they’d hate to loose. Connie, my youngest, decided to make sure her homework wasn’t in the bag because she didn’t want it saved. The only thing she really wanted to take were the puppies and her cat, all of which were much enjoying the commotion. I left them filling buckets and baths, with a parting “and don’t flush the toilet it reduces the water pressure.” I ran up the road still in my dressing gown to see if the old widow, Mrs Kaye, was all right. “Nice of you to ask deary, do you want some sherry and a biscuit, and a bone.” Perhaps she had mistaken me for Father Christmas.
Then, as quickly as it started it was all over, but in that thirty minutes we had become a community. Not a safe community as I had originally wanted but somehow that didn’t matter.
I can’t help thinking of my grandmother, Nanny Stone, who taught me how to catch sticklebacks in a jam jar. She’d lived in London during the blitz with my Mum, and Aunts, and Uncles, and Pops who’d fought “the first time”, and been wounded at “Wipers.” She always said that that despite the bombings they were the best years of her life, and I’d never believed her.
Perhaps some of her generation should have a word withThe Pentagon and Al Qaeda.

FIRST FISH

I’d like to say that the first fish was a trout caught on a dry fly. I’d like to but I can’t. In fact it was a stickleback caught in a jam jar on a piece of sting from a pond near my Gran’s house. We took them back to her house and put them in a big glass lollie jar but they died before it was time to go home at the end of the week. On the other hand my daughter, although not a fisherman, can make that impressive claim so this is her story..
There is a creek less than two hours from Melbourne that carries large rainbows. It doesn’t all year but they swim up stream to spawn in it, so in September and October they are still hanging about thinking (if trout think) about swimming back down into their home for the rest of the year. If you catch it right you can land big fish (well I’ve caught fish up to about 3 ½ lbs which aren’t big by New Zealand standards I’ll grant you but are big enough OK.) By the way don’t ask for directions because you aren’t going to get any. I seriously considered blindfolding my daughter for the trip but in the end let her off with a blood oath on her pet cat’s life.
So we get there early, not as early as I’d like but she’s my daughter so allowances have to be made. Well we’re there before anyone else, which is always good. To tell the truth I think it’s a bit of an unknown spot, certainly it doesn’t feature in any guide book I’ve seen. I once saw another bloke there with a spinning rod but for such good fly water it’s strange I’ve never seen another fly fisherman. Of course as I’ve already said it’s only worth fishing for a few weeks after the autumn water goes down a little and before the fish wander off so some years it just doesn’t seem to work at all. I’m a little nervous about taking Con there as it’s so fickle but I know that other more reliable water is only 20 minutes away if required. Actually I’m more pleased to have my daughter along although I know it’s really a one rod creek. After a half hour walk from parking the car we arrive at the stream and rig up. I tie on a dark brown nymph, there’s nothing happening on the surface and you’ve got to start somewhere, and offer her choice of water. While this is a good dry fly creek I’ve had success nymphing here before when nothing is rising, and also using a nymph to imitate a needle stonefly fall that tends to happen around lunchtime if the weather’s right. She’s never been fishing before but has practiced casting in the drive and watched a video from the Scientific Anglers range about finding trout. She decides to hang back and watch me catch a few first, no pressure then. As luck would have it I managed a small rainbow at the head of the first pool I fished, not much but it’s a start. I offer her the next pool but she doesn’t like the look of it and again at the third she decides to stand back and watch. By this stage I’m beginning to think that she isn’t going to fish at all but then she announces that she wants a go at the broken water up ahead.
So I offer her my nymph (which by this stage has already been successful twice) but she decides to fish a #14 Royal Wulff because it’s pretty, which is always a good reason. Her first cast landed awkwardly on the far bank, but a quick yank had it in the water where it’s taken by perhaps the prettiest fish I’ve ever seen. She quickly brought it to her feet, dragged rather than played. Unfortunately I was a bit slow with the camera and as she held it up it jumped out of her hand and swam off.
I’d like to say it was the first of many, but as yet she can’t make that claim. What she can do though is to look people in the eye and say, “well I fish for wild trout with a dry fly, and yes I do catch them. Actually I know this spot, and no I’m not going to say where but thank you for asking.”
I think she might make a fisherman yet.

THE VOICE

I suppose I should at the beginning but …
Sometimes it’s nice living in a small town where everyone knows everyone else, and other days you just want to be by yourself.
I can remember it being different. It doesn’t seem long ago when I didn’t live here and spent large parts of each day just sitting on the train trying not to make eye contact with any of the other passenger, because if they said, “Hello Izaak,” I’d be forced to try to remember their name. The next thing I know is I’m being woken by a middle-aged woman dressed in a purple kaftan carrying a crumpled carpetbag. A pretty scary sign at the best of times, I knew it must be Belgrave - the end of the line in so many ways.
“Your home now.” She reassured me. By some strange quirk of fate she was actually wrong. I have had to sleep in the odd Railway Station, but I’ve never actually lived in one.
When I first moved to Melbourne from England I got off the plane and because it was raining, surprisingly for Melbourne, I’d hopped into a taxi. Anyway this voice was on the taxi radio saying something like, “Hi, this is the Kevin and Fifi show on triple K. Unfortunately Fifi isn’t here yet - she’s stuck on the Monash.” For over a year I’d thought that “the Monash” was local colloquium for the toilet. Later of course I’d discovered it was a road, but only after I’d tried to blend in as a local by using it in a Restaurant. “Excuse me waiter but where’s the Monash.” “About three Kilometres down the road.” I think from that point on I’d decided to avoid Melbourne’s public sanitation system and drink as little as possible when I’m out. After I discovery of the real meaning I adjusted my resolution and have steered clear of road network and to commute on the train whenever possible, which ironically has the advantage that I could drink as much as I liked.
On arriving in Melbourne I was at once faced with the decision of where to live. The soulless suburbs with their endless executive style split level brick veneer barbecues had ruled themselves out a possible home, I’ve seen too many episodes of Neighbours for that, although I do rate the Stepford Wives as one of my favourite all time movies much to my wife’s disgust (the original not the dreadful remake with Nichole Kidman.) Anyway I moved into a rented house in semi-rural Emerald. The house, last redecorated in 1971, had silver wallpaper left over from an outer suburban discotheque. All that was missing was a mirror ball and a Boney M 8-track. Almost everything else in the house was orange or chromed. Above a blocked off fireplace, home to a one bar electric fire which when lit actually would have worked better as an air conditioner, hung an embroidered picture of huge orange poppies. Before living there I had never seen myself reflected in a chrome toilet. That the house needed decorating was undeniable, but as a new arrival I wondered if the whole of Australia was in a style time warp, a Bermuda Triangle of good taste with it’s inhabitants just pioneer settlers too busy stayin’ alive. From that base I started searching the valley for a more suitable family home close to the river. My family was to join me in two weeks time.
The house I found was actually the first I looked at. Either a sign that it was just what I wanted or of my sheer desperation to return from living in the seventies before I started wearing flared trousers.
The house was, as the real estate agent pointed out twenty three times, only five minutes from the Railway Station, what’s more these were special real estate agents minutes each lasting four times longer than an average minute. Going home via the school added perhaps an additional five minutes. I used to normally get home before my wife; sometimes I’d pick the kids up from school on the way, so they didn’t have to go to after school care. Once I made a special effort to be on time, I thought they would be pleased to see me but it turned out that as it was after school video club day and they were looking forward to it because it was going to be a Disney. They couldn’t have hated me more if I’d just shot Bambi’s mum myself. (Am I the only person who sees that film from the hunter’s point of view and wonders if they fish too, maybe they even used the deer hair to make little fishing flies?)
I say that I commuted into Melbourne. This isn’t strictly true. From time to time in order to make a living I have worked in Melbourne. It wasn’t exactly my dream when I immigrated with re-runs of Skippy in my head, but it pays the mortgage, just about. OK my wife has a real job that pays the mortgage, but contract work has its compensations, for one it frees up large chunks of the year to go fishing. Anyway on the day in question I’d been to Melbourne and seen an agency about a “real job”.
The kids fixed themselves home-time snacks while I swept the drive, a Zen Buddhist’s occupation in a eucalypt forest with a gravel drive.
As I was doing this, a black limousine drove down the road and stopped. Two men in matching black suits and black glasses marched out. Either the Mafia had a contract out on me or they were very rich Mormons.
“Excuse me is this number 8?” The one talking had an Italian accent. It was difficult to tell about the one not talking.
“Num-ber 8,” repeated the second.
Now my house is number eight, and seeing that it has a big bronze “8” on the gate it seemed pretty silly denying it.
“Yes,” I replied “but they’re out. I’m just the gardener.”
“One minute.” said the first suit.
“One min-ute” repeated the second.
The two went back to the car and consulted whoever was on the back seat. Then returned with an envelope.
“Make sure he gets this” sneered the first suit, “it’s important.”
“Im-por-tant” agreed the second suit.
That was all. They just left.
Terrified I waited ten minutes after they were out of sight before I opened the envelope. It contained just two words, “April fool!”
Later I went down to the station to meet my wife off the 6.55 as her car was in dry dock having the barnacles scraped from the carburettor or some such adjustment. As I was standing next to the car I noticed the woman in the kaftan was still there, surrounded by plastics bags, and looking like a refuge from Woodstock. As I was looking at her she turned round and we made eye contact. I looked away, but it was too late, she was coming over.
“Hello again Izaak, you can’t keep away.”
The voice of a small man sitting on my right shoulder, ”Oh God she knows my name. Say something, anything,” while a similar little man on my left shoulder remarked, “ignore him he’s just an illusion.”
“Hello again, I keep trying not to come to the station, but somehow can’t train myself not to.” I replied in an unparalleled display of repartee.
“Are you meeting Vicky?” she asked.
The voice said, “She knows your wife, she knows your family, she probably knows where you live, think, quickly……or run away.”
“I suppose your here to meet, er, sorry I can’t remember your husbands name.”
“David, and he died two weeks ago.”
The voice in my head gave a sigh of relief and said, “It’s Elizabeth Quinn, mother of Franny who’s in the same class as Connie. Husband was a bus driver, had a heart attack at the wheel, ten people killed.”
Some days it’s good to be by yourself, with only the voices in your head.
……and now a sort of beginning.