Read Online Heat and Light by Ellen van Neerven - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ellen van Neerven
Tags: Literary, Science-Fiction, Historical, australia, Short Stories (Single Author), Cultural Heritage
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realised it had always been like this, even before Lena had passed. It so happened that particular summer delivered a record number of storms in the south-east, more than any other year. He gazed at his daughter twitching in her sleep as the wind yowled outside.
WATER
No one checks my ticket as I hop on board the ferry. I am the only one who elects to sit outside, and I soon find out why. The wind. I can already feel my face is beaten, my skin stung, my lips chapped. But I have made myself comfortable, my legs drawn up underneath me, and I am away from the other people so I just sit back and feel the wind in my ears. I must fall asleep because the next thing I notice is a man with a moustache standing over me expectantly.
I look at him for a moment before realising he is the ticket collector. I bend down and rummage through my duffel bag. He stands close to me until I find my ticket and he looks at it carefully before stamping it and giving it back to me.
When I look at it again I realise the lady has given me a return ticket, and I haven’t twigged. I won’t be needing it – it is only of use today. I am still sleepy, and when I get up my legs are shot with lead so I stumble and drop the ticket overboard. I look over the edge, though the little bit of paper has already been swallowed up by the whitewater surge of the boat, and I feel a misplaced sense of grief.
When I’d told my mother I was going to work on Russell Island, I admitted it was by no means an easy thing, yet I didn’t feel any reluctance leaving the mainland and heading off in the ferry, powering through the thrilling surge of ocean. On the way to Russell, we passed the smaller islands; they glinted in the sun.
It isn’t long until I guess the shape before us is Russell, and I make out the buildings, the smoke from the industry tankers. There is a lot of greenery, and a thin edge of sand, like icing on a cake. The attendant announces our destination and the ferry stops.
I arrive on a Saturday, so I have a day and a half to settle in before starting on Monday. The contracting company provides a stand-up house at the base on Russell Island. It suits me fine. I thought Russell would be what you expect of an island – peaceful, isolated, good for my thoughts, but it’s not. It’s a centre of activity, the company is a good way along to completing the ‘Australia2’ project for the government by the 2028 deadline.
My place is an easy five-minute walk from the ferry, in the quieter residential section. There is a grocery store just by the ferry terminal, convenient, and not too expensive as you would think. My street is full of houses that look exactly like mine. To use my mobile phone, I have to keep walking to the end of the street, and there the industry stand-ups start.
My place is fully furnished. All I have to unpack is my blanket and clothes and a toaster. Everything in the house smells brand new, the off-gassing piping through my lungs. It is like a hotel room – the bed has sheets on it and the fridge is compact. I’ll have to stop myself from leaving the towels on the floor; there won’t be anyone around while I’m out.
On the mainland the other week my cousin Julie and I met at the old post office and had a drink. I’m still getting to know Julie. She is twenty years older than me, but she lets me forget it. Julie lives in the apartments in the Story Bridge, built just a few years ago. Julie has lived most of her life in slimehole Sydney, she’s only just moved back here. I’m glad Julie called me when she came back and we’ve been meeting, because I want to get closer to that side of the family. Dad died when I was young. My mum is white and she tells me a bit about my family but I don’t know much. I know they were all artists – my dad, Julie’s dad, my other uncle and my grandmother. It’s not like it used to be for artists. I can’t paint; I was lucky, I guess.
Julie also doesn’t paint. She works now at the Freedom
WATER
No one checks my ticket as I hop on board the ferry. I am the only one who elects to sit outside, and I soon find out why. The wind. I can already feel my face is beaten, my skin stung, my lips chapped. But I have made myself comfortable, my legs drawn up underneath me, and I am away from the other people so I just sit back and feel the wind in my ears. I must fall asleep because the next thing I notice is a man with a moustache standing over me expectantly.
I look at him for a moment before realising he is the ticket collector. I bend down and rummage through my duffel bag. He stands close to me until I find my ticket and he looks at it carefully before stamping it and giving it back to me.
When I look at it again I realise the lady has given me a return ticket, and I haven’t twigged. I won’t be needing it – it is only of use today. I am still sleepy, and when I get up my legs are shot with lead so I stumble and drop the ticket overboard. I look over the edge, though the little bit of paper has already been swallowed up by the whitewater surge of the boat, and I feel a misplaced sense of grief.
When I’d told my mother I was going to work on Russell Island, I admitted it was by no means an easy thing, yet I didn’t feel any reluctance leaving the mainland and heading off in the ferry, powering through the thrilling surge of ocean. On the way to Russell, we passed the smaller islands; they glinted in the sun.
It isn’t long until I guess the shape before us is Russell, and I make out the buildings, the smoke from the industry tankers. There is a lot of greenery, and a thin edge of sand, like icing on a cake. The attendant announces our destination and the ferry stops.
I arrive on a Saturday, so I have a day and a half to settle in before starting on Monday. The contracting company provides a stand-up house at the base on Russell Island. It suits me fine. I thought Russell would be what you expect of an island – peaceful, isolated, good for my thoughts, but it’s not. It’s a centre of activity, the company is a good way along to completing the ‘Australia2’ project for the government by the 2028 deadline.
My place is an easy five-minute walk from the ferry, in the quieter residential section. There is a grocery store just by the ferry terminal, convenient, and not too expensive as you would think. My street is full of houses that look exactly like mine. To use my mobile phone, I have to keep walking to the end of the street, and there the industry stand-ups start.
My place is fully furnished. All I have to unpack is my blanket and clothes and a toaster. Everything in the house smells brand new, the off-gassing piping through my lungs. It is like a hotel room – the bed has sheets on it and the fridge is compact. I’ll have to stop myself from leaving the towels on the floor; there won’t be anyone around while I’m out.
On the mainland the other week my cousin Julie and I met at the old post office and had a drink. I’m still getting to know Julie. She is twenty years older than me, but she lets me forget it. Julie lives in the apartments in the Story Bridge, built just a few years ago. Julie has lived most of her life in slimehole Sydney, she’s only just moved back here. I’m glad Julie called me when she came back and we’ve been meeting, because I want to get closer to that side of the family. Dad died when I was young. My mum is white and she tells me a bit about my family but I don’t know much. I know they were all artists – my dad, Julie’s dad, my other uncle and my grandmother. It’s not like it used to be for artists. I can’t paint; I was lucky, I guess.
Julie also doesn’t paint. She works now at the Freedom
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