Returning

to the moon, and an Olveston Short Story

Dear Friends,

I’m returning. I love that word, returning, as if we are birds, as if we hold something we have always known.

I’m returning to a once or twice a month posting schedule. I’ve enjoyed posting weekly, and I have noticed that my reflective time has lessened alongside the rise of the question: what shall I post this week? My process arcs alongside the moon perhaps. The first glimmer of an idea winking in, then building. This takes time. There’s a welling as small stories gather into a whole.

I am returning to the moon.

Moonrise, watercolour on paper by Kirstie McKinnon

Thank you to those of you who loved my weekly posts. Can I direct your attention to three other Substacks which absolutely sustain me:

• The Life Boat
  by Samantha Clark. Water, artistic process and island life. Sublime.

• Poetry Unbound
  by Pádraig Ó Tuama. Poetry, reflections and discussion. Comfort for troubled times on steroids.

• The Querent
  by Alexander Chee. Prose writing tools and insight, generously shared how-to expertise.

Below is my short story Deliveries. I mentioned this story fleetingly in my last post. When I visited Olveston House, I saw a nest of scallop shells in a glass case alongside various ornate objects. I wanted the shells, and perhaps the characters, to escape. This thought was the catalyst for the story. The story is set in Dunedin, New Zealand during the First World War, the narrator is a 16 year old boy.

*

Deliveries

an Olveston Short Story by Kirstie McKinnon

In my basket I have three fresh cabbages. Three for three big houses. Bit of a pain because the third one rolls and tips on the bottom two as I pedal up the hill. The bike’s not mine. Love it like my own eyes. I keep it black and shine it, pump the tyres. It’s got a bell. I save that. Ring it on the downhills when no-one can shout to shut me up. Ring it after I see her.

The cabbages smell of fresh autumn paddock, frost chill and fallen leaves. Not sweating yet. Stop at the top of the hill, lungs blowing, blood in a rush. Look back to the sea. Today it licks and glitters in the late dawn. The tiny weight of the catseye in my left pocket, smooth as glass and green, like her eyes. Cold hands. Puff on them. Tuck them under my arms. Doesn’t help. Get on with it. Deliver the cabbages one, two. Save the third for Olveston, where she is.

I push the bike through the gate. Lean it on the hedge. Quick. They’re coming. The three dogs crowd around me. Jack Russel stands on hind legs, Old Collie sits and waits, and the St Bernard cruises alongside me like a whale. I feed them the scraps of fat from my emergency pocket. Give St B an extra one and rub my cold hands in his fur. Ah. Warm. He’s bigger than me I reckon. His fur is silky, like rabbit, but thicker. Been washed, and brushed ‘til he shines. He smells a bit like flowers. Bet he hates summer. 

Look up. Yep. Third floor window, he’s there. Always there looking out. What at? The trees? They’re okay, but he can’t see the sea on his side. Maybe he hears it, calling. He’s like one of them birds in the new aviary. Strange and sleek, larger than the local birds. Come to think of it, his window, is ‘bout as high as a tree. He’s got brown hair like mine, though nah, mine bounces off my head, his is neat-combed flat. He’s grown a moustache. I touch the top of my lip. Maybe I’ll grow one. She might like it. 

Run and jump and grab the low rung of the fire escape under his window. Cold iron bites my palm like a mad dragon crab. Let go. Drop back to the ground. He raises his hand in a wave. I wave back. Same routine every morning. First time I did it, thought he was gonna shout like Dad does. But nah. 

Cabbage under my arm. The dogs follow me to the kitchen window. 

Flash of her red hair. Sun glints off the glass as she opens it. The air tastes of new bread. Check for the cook. Not there. Dash up. She leans out. Sink in the way on her side, and the deep sill on mine. Kiss. Quick. Cook’s clogs on tiles. Cook’s coming. Her freckles disappear into her dimples as she drops back into the room. Think my heart’s going to jump through. Instead, pass her the cabbage. We hold hands under it. Brief. I palm her the catseye. She crooks the cabbage like a babe, pockets the catseye. Sun streams into the kitchen and lights the floor and her. She gleams. And now I’m jealous of the sun on her boots, and catseye in the pocket against her thigh, and the cool, pale leaves of the cabbage under her freckled hands, against her chest. 

‘Will that be all miss?’ I ask.

‘We require a leg of lamb and some turnips tomorrow please,’ she says and winks.

‘And fresh carrots,’ says Cook behind her.

‘And fresh carrots please,’ and her eyes dance like the sunlit sea.

‘That will be no problem, miss,’ I say. 

The dogs follow me back to the bicycle. He’s still there. Window is open now. I push the bike carefully through the gate, close it. Dogs push their noses through the iron bars. Last pat. Look up. He’s leaning, reaching with his right arm towards the fire escape. He could make it I reckon if he stood on the deep sill. I’m sixteen. He’s old, over twenty. Though, he seems real old, like my Da already. Like he’s got a big dead bear on his shoulders, and he didn’t kill it, just carrying it ‘cause he’s told. I leave before he sees me watching. 

Ring the bell all the way down the hill. 

Annie. Annie. Annie.

Race past the enlistment office, poster with the handsome soldier. Not fooling me mate. Nah. Decide not to grow a moustache.

Back to the farm store by the sea. Da’s there. Da smiles. Good mood? He’s standing next to three crates of new apples. He waves a letter. Afraid for a moment, but we already got the letter about Bren. Can’t die twice. 

The sweet scent of apples hits me with the fresh smell of the sea at full tide. I lean the bike on an apple crate. 

Got news, he says. There’s a place for you Tom, on my sister’s farm, in Balclutha, he says. They need more hands to help with supplies for the war. There’s a house too, for a married man. He grins. Haven’t seen him grin in a long time.

I whoop and hug the old fella. He slaps me on the back.

‘You can give her your mother’s ring,’ he says.

I think of the shells I’ve been saving.

Next day, I’m earlier, with lamb, turnips, carrots and new apples. The nested scallop shells are in my good pocket. Taken ages to collect a full set. Bit rare. Each one fits inside the other. Bren started it, gave me the first two. I kept looking for more after he’d gone. The inner shells are smooth and pale like the skin of her wrists. The milky orange backs are the colour of her freckles. They chime and chuckle and make shell music in my pocket.

I push the bike through the gate, scraps to the dogs, jump and grab the fire escape. Make the second rung. Grown! Look up. Yep. He’s there. Window open. He waves. Wave back. Then basket in my arms, me and dogs trot around to the kitchen window to see Annie. The dogs watch the basket. 

I pass her the lamb and carrots slow as slack water, our hands brush with each exchange. I give her the turnips and apples one by one, and whisper the news. 

‘When can we go?’ she asks.

‘December. We’ll go for hay-making and stay.’

‘Let’s get married in the spring,’ she whispers.

‘Nah, let’s get married tomorrow.’

She beams and laughs. It’s the harbour lit with stars. Want to dive through that window and whirl her in a dance.

Cook calls her name, high and shrill. The clogs beat toward the window faster than usual.

‘Gotta go,’ she says, ‘The family had a big row last night. No-one wants her waffles,’ she whispers. I kiss the air, she’s gone.

Dogs and me jig back to the gate. They jump and leap. Even Old Collie. Feed them the last fat scraps. Chalky chink from my good pocket. Forgot to give her the scallop shells. Tomorrow!

Look up at his window. And there he is, climbing down the fire escape, duffel bag on his shoulder, over balancing him. I move to catch him if he falls.

He’s okay. He drops down the last rung beside me. Crunch of gravel. Puts a finger to his lips. He’s tall. His boots are super-shined. Brown tweed suit, a white shirt with a collar Annie might have starched. His tie is very neat.

‘Morning Tom,’ a whisper. St B noses at him. He pats him on the head. His eyes are dark, excited, reckless. Bren had that look. My gut clenches. He pats too hard and St B steps back. 

‘Morning sir,’ I whisper. Didn’t know he knew my name. I smell a whiff of brandy.

‘Thought I’d walk with you a bit,’ he whispers.

‘Alright sir,’ I can feel blood rushing in my face. I push the bike. Quiet. I’m guilty and glad that I’m too young and I’ve got the farm as an excuse not to go where he’s going.

I open the gate and we both go through. Close it quiet. Dogs’ tails wag at half mast.

Copper beech leaves spin and fall on the street. Young trees, but sturdy. I want them to grow big.

Once we’re clear of the house and on Heriot Row he says, ‘I have — something for you and Annie.’ He reaches inside the tweed and passes me an envelope. On the front, in curly writing it says, to Tom and Annie, with best wishes for the future.

‘Thank you sir,’ I say, ‘I didn’t know anyone knew about us,’ except Da, Annie’s Mum and maybe Cook. We’ve been engaged on the quiet for weeks.

‘Hard to keep secrets up there Tom,’ his jaw tightens, a glimpse of the heavy thing, ‘But no matter. Things will be better now.’

I don’t speak. Just nod. His voice is deep, as if he’s singing and speaking at the same time. Annie told me he sings and plays the piano in the drawing room, the music filters through the house and she waltzes, pretending I’m there. Jealous of him, being so near her, when all my moments are stolen, like a moth’s brief bash at a light.

‘I envy you, you know,’ he says.

I trip and nearly drop the bike. Good thing the basket is empty, ‘Me sir?’

‘Yes. You’re free.’

Free.

He smooths his moustache.

‘My brother —’ I say, but I can’t say more. I feel the smooth edges of the scallop shells, washed by the sea until they have the grainy catch of silk. I do the only thing I can think of. Lift them from my pocket, ‘Will you take these with you sir? They’re from the harbour.’

‘Thank you,’ he says. The shells look small in his big hand, the long fingers right for the piano. His nails are clean and smooth. ‘I heard about your brother. My condolences,’ he says. The shells clink like bells, ‘A perfect set,’ he says, ‘of lucky talismans.’ 

I nod because I can’t think of what else to say, except don’t go.

Then he salutes, and continues down the Heriot Row steps. I watch his back until he disappears under the eaves of the enlistment office.

Then, can’t help it. Peek in the envelope. Count. Holy moly. Eighty pounds! 

Annie and I will be set up for life.

Gulls spin in the sky, so high they’re miniature white kites. They’ve lost their strings. They call and cry. I ring the bell. Ring it all the way to the harbour. The tightness in my gut eases as I think about Annie. I imagine her hair streaming in the wind as she races me, fast on a new bike beside the plunging Clutha river, racing to the sea.

Da’s there by the apples, he waits, not even pretending to work, ‘What did she say?’

I grin.

*

Thank you for reading.

Kirstie