The force accompanying the closing of the front door and the heavy thump of a bulging school bag landing heavily on the hall floor heralded a crisis as a tired, drawn face presented for the customary after school refresher. “I just cannot do it mum; I just cannot think!”
And as the milk and cookies disappeared down a thirsty throat the moment was lost when an enquiry and explanation might have brought the matter to an earlier conclusion.
This was something new. There had been very few occasions when such an admission had burst forth from my energetic girl guide and swimming champ… and her father was usually the one who stepped up to face these challenging moments. The challenge however on this occasion was going to land fairly and squarely in my lap.
The weekend was passing with her distress becoming more and more obvious as Sunday evening drew to a close. Finally, the storm broke. A creative piece of writing was called for by Monday morning… such short notice with the weekend all but over. I have never been looked to for help of this kind before and failing to help now was not an option.
Comfort is a mother’s first reaction and this sentiment triggered what followed. With two cups of tea, a large-large blanket and a block of chocolate we took ourselves out into the garden to perch on the old garden bench. Wrapping our two selves well into the blanket, we studied the choice of subjects before us… A Visit to the Museum, A Trip to the Theatre, A Day in the Countryside, or a subject of your own choosing.
Fire almost daily plays havoc on the Australian scene whether in town or countryside; and so it was that a recent event close by was uppermost in our consciousness at this time. And so, the subject chose itself… imagining a scenario, which would depict bravery, tragedy and heart felt compassion.
We attempted to visualise colour, smell, touch and discomfort as we sipped and chewed our way through our supplies. We weren’t overly concerned at this time in our relationship about waistlines and buttocks… that would come later.
The story shadowed a family’s trauma when their home and possessions are lost in a fire, and the small incidents that helped their survival. The fire was out now, and the family gone into safekeeping, but the ravages to the house remained. The path to the front door that had once welcomed family and friends was now nothing more than a broken, very muddy track.
The garden once laid out with such care and dedication now desolate under water, mud and ash; but laying alongside that broken pathway, it’s feet in a pool of water, lay one sodden teddy bear. A once fluffy brown teddy bear who had fallen from the hands of its young owner, to lay abandoned and alone.
Not quite alone, for with a shake the gentle gloved hands of a fireman collected the teddy and set him against the smoke-stained, once white picket fence where his young owner would find him safe and cared for. At least, this was what we wished for in our imaginings.
The evening was growing cool and the shadows lengthening as the rough copy was finalised; and a contented lass grabbed some dinner and retreated to her bedroom and desk. A worried dad finally had his truants back under his roof pleased to witness smiles instead of tears, the task completed.
Now to await the outcome. The weekend over and another Monday arrived, but for me this weekend had been a momentous one.
I had helped to set her free and proved to myself that I was still relevant and important in a young life; a young life that was rapidly approaching adulthood when the opportunities to contribute, even in a small way, would become less and less.
The memory stays with us both to this day and would become the trigger to our writing adventure.
